


This Bitter Earth

by HarperRose (Harper_Rose)



Series: The Fourth Floor [1]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I just rly like Stephen Strange, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Tony centric, Tony still has the arc reactor, not kind to steve rogers, p okay towards Natasha tho, she cool, stephen centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-03-16 15:38:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13639209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harper_Rose/pseuds/HarperRose
Summary: When the "Exiled Avengers," as Tony has taken to referring to them, return to the states, confined by the UN to the Avengers compound indefinitely, Tony isn't coping well.He's doing his best to fix things for the greater good, reworking their agreement with the UN. But he's exhausted and not ready to deal with a certain super soldier that broke his heart and left him to die in the Russian winter.Thankfully, Tony has the not so likely blooming friendship and relationship with one sorcerer to keep his head up. He hates magic, but damn it he really likes Stephen Strange.Things get worse before they get better.





	1. So It Goes...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When someone leaves you, apart from missing them, apart from the fact that the whole little world you've created together collapses, and that everything you see or do reminds you of them, the worst is the thought that they tried you out and, in the end, the whole sum of parts adds up to you got stamped REJECT by the one you love. How can you not be left with the personal confidence of a passed over British Rail sandwich?”
> 
> \- Helen Fielding, "Bridget Jones's Diary"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This kind of came out of nowhere, but these two facial hair boys have become the only ones I care about in this cinematic universe.

After Siberia and the Accords, Tony immerses himself in business; whether SI or Avengers it matters little. Tony makes sure to keep himself properly busy. If he’s busy he won’t have to think about it, he won’t have to deal with it. So long as he stays busy constantly then none of it can catch up with him. So, he throws himself head first into his work.

With Pepper as the CEO of SI, he doesn’t have much in the way of board meetings to attend, only the occasional conference calls or stop-ins with R&D. He tinkers with Iron Man, manufacturing upgrades and repairs. That still leaves him with more than plenty of Avengers business to attend. With SHIELD fallen and dispersed, half the Avengers excommunicated, and nothing but a small compound upstate, there is plenty for Tony to do.

He starts with rebuilding some semblance of what was once SHIELD, only on his own terms and under his own watch. It was subsumed into the Avengers Initiative now. Tony is officially Director of the operation, with Maria Hill working directly beneath him. Tony trusts her to do a good job. He did always like her and she has, somewhat begrudgingly, admitted she reciprocates.

The active team is much smaller without the members they had lost, but they make do and they keep an eye out for new recruits. It has grown quickly, but it isn’t much. Vision and Rhodey are now official members, of course. Bruce hangs around whenever he is in the country. Peter is on standby, but Tony isn’t allowing him a full membership until he’s eighteen, and even then it’s questionable. Bobbi Morse had reached out to them not long ago, offering her help. As ex-SHIELD Tony was hesitant, but Maria had vouched for her. Scott Lang and Hope Pym have been taken on as consultants. Carol Danvers was the newest member.

It was a small team, but they had a good dynamic.

Tony works the most he has in years; the most he has since he was dying. It keeps his mind occupied, so what’s the alternative?

Tony keeps himself plenty busy with Avengers’ business. He feels, sometimes, that he spends more time at the compound than at home. He’s working himself to exhaustion, burying himself with paperwork and contracts, negotiations and agreements. He’s doing his best to reinstate the people’s trust in the Avengers, in giving them as much freedom from the government as he can. They need to be held accountable, and they need to answer to some higher power, but he isn’t going to have them play bloodhound to the American government either. They’re in the middle of talks with the United Nations at the moment, but Tony’s hoping to spread their reach. What if another country needs help? What if an intergalactic threat lands on none-UN soil? The possibilities are endless as they run through Tony’s mind; endless threats from endless universes. Tony hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since New York.

It’s late, horribly late, but Tony can’t sleep. He’s digging through contracts and statements and articles in the living room of his Malibu home. He needs everything to be perfect for when they go before the UN, needs every base covered, no backends or loopholes or oversights. This won’t be a repeat of the Accords, he will make sure of that.

His eyes feel heavy and dry and his shoulders tense and pained as he sits hunched over the coffee table. There’s a breeze that brings in the saltwater from the Pacific. His mind is racing too quick with all the drafts and redrafts of his contracts and agreements that the sounds of seabirds and waves fall on deaf ears.

“Tony?”

He startles, fingers jumping across the page and head turning towards the voice.

“What are you doing? It’s one in the morning, and after what we’ve been up to you should be plenty exhausted,” Stephen Strange says around a yawn. He sweeps a hand through Tony’s hair, brushing the strands out of his face. His fingers linger along the base of his neck.

Tony leans into the warm touch, finding the contact a reassuring sensation. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says.

The others are coming back stateside in the morning, the “Exiled Avengers,” as he calls them. It has been two years and they were being flown in tomorrow via private jet. In less than twenty-four hours Tony would be face-to-face with Steve fucking Rogers.

“Worrying isn’t going to do you any good,” Stephen says. “It’s late, Tony, this is fruitless exertion at this point.”

Tony opens his eyes and blinks several times, he hadn’t realized they had fallen shut. But with Stephen’s thumb running soothing circles along his scalp Tony is feeling more relaxed. He takes in the site of the sorcerer dressed down in a pair of sweatpants and little else. Tony enjoys seeing the man in something other than his tunic and cloak. The uniform makes him look larger, more broad-shouldered and imposing. Like this… well, he looks average, if not incredibly handsome.

Not that he will admit it. They aren’t really at the stage of professing one’s beauty. More at the, I’m-Feeling-Vulnerable-And-I-Want-You-To-Fuck-Me stage. Was that a stage?

Tony should really go back to therapy.  

“Come to bed, Tony. You need your sleep.”

“I don’t need sleep, I need to ensure the _safety_ of our team,” he argues. His hands bunch into fists in his lap. “I need to make sure that what happened last time doesn’t happen again, I need to…” he shakes his head, frowning forlornly at the stack of papers and the numerous digital ones on his tablet, the blue light harsh against his eyes.

“I’m a medical doctor, Tony. And I say you need sleep. Now, if you would please.”

Tony pulls himself to his feet and sighs. “You’re bossier than Bruce.”

Stephen snorts but doesn’t comment.

Tony allows himself to be directed to his feet and to his room, falling into the sheets beside the sorcerer. He curls into the other man’s side, burrowing his head into his chest. He knows they're not really together, but he hopes he doesn’t mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of this story, Clint has no super-secret family he keeps on a super-secret farm. None o' that bullshit, thank youuu!


	2. It Started With a Bang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a few glimpses into Tony and Stephen's relationship over the past year.

****_**One Year Prior** _

Tony meets Doctor Stephen Strange two months after the Accords; after the “civil war.”

Having the world on his shoulders doesn’t mean that the world comes to a stop. There’s a gala uptown on a Saturday, hosted by the Maria Stark foundation. It’s mostly doctors and people with too much money that fills fat pockets. Christine Everhart and her flock of “journalists” are in attendance, cornering Tony as he tries to hide in the crowd, moping over Pepper abandoning him to make nice with the other attendees and donors.

After shaking the journalist parasites, Tony relocates himself to the bar, checking his cell and texting with FRIDAY. She is no JARVIS, but he does enjoy bouncing ideas off of her. His AI's are the most intelligent conversations he has these days, and they only succeed in feeding into his own ego. It's only a hop, skip, and a jump from talking to himself. Something he does enough of these days. God, he's fucking neurotic.

He is going through paperwork from the Department of Defense that he needs to sign and distribute to the team when someone approaches, catching Tony’s attention when he clears his throat. Tony turns, instinctively offering a synthetic smile, assuming this to be another donor come to make nice. He’s handsome, just a little grey, and just a tad taller than Tony.

“Mr. Stark,” the man introduces himself, “Dr. Stephen Strange.” He extends a hand and Tony grips it politely. The handshake is stunted and as the man retracts his hand Tony sees it tremble and twitch. The scars that run along the fingers and dorsal don’t go unnoticed either. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You too, I’m sure,” Tony says. He knows the name, he’s a high profile surgeon, one of the best. He’s been on Tony’s radar for awhile, mostly due to Hydra. Tony had seen him mentioned in _Project Insight's_ files as a _person of interest_  and a threat to Hydra _._ Anyone that poses a threat to the _Hive_ has Tony's attention. He had seen the newsreels of when the man went missing for several months and Tony wants to mention it, but he bites his tongue and says, “You’re a neurosurgeon, aren’t you? I’ve heard your name tossed around. Thrown out once or twice at a thing like this.” He gestures sweepingly to the room surrounding them.

“I _was_ a neurosurgeon,” Strange says, but he doesn’t elaborate further. Strange assesses Tony with a look reminiscent to those which Tony has been on the receiving end of his entire life. He’s being sized up with that calculating gaze that masks an intellect Tony thinks might rival his own. He's so starved for an intelligent conversation, for someone he doesn't have to dumb himself down for. It's like he can see the surface of the ocean he has been drowning in so long, but something stops him and he's suddenly afraid to breach the surface.

Once, maybe, Tony would cling to that ounce of approval that he sees in Strange's gaze. Before Siberia he would be actively searching it out, clinging to it desperately while it slips between his fingers like fine sand. These days, Tony feels way too fragile to put any stock into that look.

“You want a drink?” Tony offers, gesturing towards the bar. It’s an innocent enough offer in and of itself, but Tony has this fluttering feeling in his chest that something significant is happening.

“I would love one.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Magic’s not real,” Tony says. He’s leant back in the booth, arms crossed over his chest and cranberry juice half drained. Pepper promised it would help with the cravings, but he’s pretty sure she had lied. He eyes the bar, a voice in the back of his mind telling him one drink won’t hurt any.

Stephen Strange disagrees with a shake of his head. “You’ve seen aliens come down through portals in the sky-”

“Aliens aren’t magic,” Tony says. “That’s science.”

“You’ve met Thor,” he says. “He’s an Asgardian. And that other one, the one that led the invasion. You’re telling me none of that was magic?”

“Magic is just unstudied science,” Tony argues. His shoulders have grown tense since the mention of the portal. His arms are crossed over his chest, the encyclopedia picture of stubborn.

Stephen laughs, setting his drink down. “Okay, well, there are some things you can’t, within reason, claim to be science.”

“That entire sentence is illogical and I think it just gave me a small stroke,” Tony says. His right leg bounces beneath the table. He can fucking smell the booze in this place, why did they come _here?_ “Science is science because it’s been studied, there’s order and laws. Magic remains magic because no one’s had the opportunity to study and understand it.”

Strange sighs. “Alright, I’ll just have to show you then.”

Tony frowns, but his amusement and the need to get out of this place is stronger than any real curiosity. Tony’s a man of science; he’s seen shit weirder than anything some ex-neurosurgeon can show him and it has all been _science_. It’s that amusement he gets out of Strange, and maybe a bit of loneliness and desperation, that has him pulling his jacket on and following the Doctor out of the bar. He throws cash down on the table and follows Strange into the alley behind the place.

It never really occurs to Tony that following people you’ve only known a few days into city alleys might be a bad idea. Not until they come to a stop and Strange is looking at Tony expectantly.

“You ready?” he asks.

Tony cocks a brow, pulling his jacket tighter against himself in the chill. “For?”

Strange pulls a golden ring from his coat pocket and slides it on. “Don’t freak out,” he says.

Tony’s eyes narrow, only to grow three times their size as Strange, with only a few simple hand motions, creates a portal large enough to consume them both. Tony takes a step back, feeling his chest tighten. He rubs at the reactor and takes a sharp breath.

Strange is looking at him with some kind of expectancy. He smiles. “I told you not to freak out!”

“You just opened a _portal_ in a West Side alley!” Tony bites in a whispered growl. He gestures between the portal and himself. “Them and I don’t exactly have positive experiences! Christ, where is that even to?” He leans in and peers through the hole in reality, eyeing the unfamiliar landscape on the other side.

“Kamar-Taj,” he says.

“Nepal? Why?”

Strange nods. “It’s where I was trained in the _mystic arts,”_ he says with a comedic finger wag.

“At least you’re aware of how stupid that sounds,” Tony muses. “Magic.”

“Come on,” he says, offering his hand to Tony. “It’s perfectly safe, promise.”

Tony hasn’t had a panic attack in months, longer even maybe. He’s taking medication for it, yet another reason he isn’t drinking. But he feels no small ounce of anxiety in his chest now. There is something about Stephen Strange, however, something in his eyes, that has Tony reaching out and taking the proffered hand. He grips it tight, trembling hand holding fast to trembling hand.

 

* * *

 

 

“Would you let me study it?” Tony asks one evening as the two of them are in Tony’s garage. He’s hunched over a suit gauntlet, repairing damages caused by a recent brawl downtown with one of the crazies Spidey usually handles. The moment the big firearms came out, Tony was already halfway across Manhattan.

“Hmm?” Stephen is lying, sprawled on the sofa. He had been in Nepal for two weeks and Tony tried not feeling warm fuzzies over the tower being his first stop back in the country. Not that Stephen was the best company in his current state. He had been asleep for almost an hour, having portaled into the penthouse half dead on his feet looking like he hadn’t slept since he had left.

“Study what?” he asks lazily, sitting up to see Tony over the back of the sofa. He sets his chin in one hand and rubs the sleep from his eyes with the other.

Tony sets his screwdriver down. “Your magic,” he says.

Stephen runs a hand through his bedhead. “You want to study the mystic arts?” he asks incredulously.

“You told me once that it’s separate from science,” Tony says. “It’ll only remain that way so long as it goes unstudied. So let me study it and prove to you they’re one in the same.”

Stephen snorts. “How would you even go about that?” he asks.

“Depends. I figure I work with what you give me.”

Stephen quirks a brow and pulls himself to his feet. Tony watches him stride across the garage, taking a seat on the work table, his knee knocking Tony’s. He’s close enough Tony can feel his body heat. “With what I give you?”

Tony swallows thickly and nods.

Stephen closes his scarred hands, the palms pressed together. After a second he opens them, revealing a small flame burning in the cup of his hands, and says, “like this?”

Tony’s eyes widen in surprise. “Yes! Yes, like this!”

Stephen grins. “I found out I could do this only recently.” There’s an excitement in his voice that has him sounding like a boy. “It’s the reason I’ve been to Kamar-Taj. I’ve read nearly every text and tome we have, yet there’s still so much I have no idea about. So many things I could _do._ I just have to learn it. Wong’s getting tired with how much time I spend in the library,” he says. “You’d love the library.”

Tony’s no longer paying the flame much mind. His eyes are stuck on Stephen, there is a light that’s a hundred times brighter than any fire that is lit in his eyes. It’s captivating. There’s an energy there that Tony has never seen in anyone before. It’s almost tangible, as though if he reached out he could touch it. He doesn’t think it will burn.

Tony averts his eyes and turns back to his tools. Fingering a wrench, he taps a nail against it. “So you’ll let me study it?”

Stephen laughs, the flame dissipating. “You can try, Stark. You can certainly try.”

Tony grins and tells FRIDAY to start a new file.

 

* * *

 

The first time they fuck, it isn’t how Tony had seen the evening turning out. He’s not _surprised,_ however. He’s been mooning over the sorcerer for months, Pepper had called him on it weeks ago. It’s not _Tony’s_ fault, the guy is beautiful and brilliant and never offended by Tony’s quick wit and harsh sense of humor.

“Congratulations, Doctor,” Tony says, handing him the contract for him to sign. Tony’s not a fan of the contractual agreements they need to sign these days, but it makes the government happy and Tony’s trying to play these things by the book. If only to stay out of maximum security prison. It’s a necessity he’s loath to make. “You’re officially an Avenger.”

Stephen smiles and says dryly, “Should we celebrate?” and hands the tablet back to Tony.

“You want to go get a drink?” he asks.

There was a while after Siberia and _Steve_ where Tony hadn’t touched a drink, couldn’t have one. But he’s been doing better, and not just a _better than okay_ sort of okay, but really okay. He doesn’t think a single night of celebration is going to do him any harm. The warmth of the whiskey as it slides down his throat is welcome as the two of them find themselves in a local dive Tony used to frequent more often once upon a time.

Tony doesn’t remember how many drinks he has, doesn’t even remember calling Happy to pick them up. He does, however, remember Stephen’s mouth on his and hands all over. Tony has to keep himself from crawling into Stephen’s lap in the back of the car. Happy wouldn’t appreciate it.

They roll into bed, Tony moaning obscenely as Stephen touches all the right places. He tugs his clothes off and is grateful when Stephen helps him, unbuttoning Tony’s shirt and pulling it off his shoulders. He remembers making out with him, his hands dragging through his hair and his name on his lips.

“Stephen,” Tony moans. “Stephen.”

“I know,” Stephen breathes. He tugs at Tony’s pants and he lifts his hips to help them slide off. “Fuck, just- let me…”

“Whatever you want,” Tony says. “Fuck, Stephen-” he breaks off as the sorcerer claims his mouth.

When Tony wakes in the morning, his limbs are pleasantly sore and his mind already racing with design plans. Stephen is sleeping soundly beside him with the sunlight coming through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is plot, for reals. As in Steve Rogers.


	3. Words Are Only Ever Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cap and the other "exiles" return and it's just peachy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, I've come to give you plot.
> 
> can I just say that I'm incredibly surprised by the number of you that actually like this? I kinda thought I was on an island with this ship. You've all proven me wrong, so thank you all. Happy Valentine's Day!!

****The plane lands on the tarmac, leaving Tony with a clear view of it from the expansive glass windows of the compound. He feels his shoulders tense as he watches Rogers exit the plane and take Romanoff’s things for her, tossing them over his shoulder, carrying his own bags in his other hand. How chivalrous, Tony snorts.

He’s hardly slept the past several nights and it shows. It shows in the bruises beneath his eyes, the exhaustion he carries in his voice, and the slight tremor in his hands. The drinking had helped with the hand shakes before, but he isn’t much one for self-medication these days.

Pepper had taken dutiful care to cover the dark circles with makeup, always the one to put him back together when the cracks begin to show. She made sure he ate breakfast and handed him a fresh coffee and bottle of water on his way out. Stange had portaled them to the compound, but part of Tony wishes they had driven if only to give him the length of the drive to gather himself.

There’s a knock at the door and Tony’s shoulders lose some of their tension as Stephen Strange pops his head inside the office. “Are you coming, Stark?” he asks. “Hill has them waiting in the lounge.”

“Waiting on what?” he asks.

“You. She’s under the assumption that you have some words to say to our _guests,_ being Director as you are.”

Tony sucks on his teeth. “Oh I have _words,”_ he says, “believe me.”

“I’ve got your back if you take Rogers,” he says with a growing smirk.

Tony laughs and straightens his tie. There is no turning back now, they have already reached the point of no return. “Things will be different this time,” he says. “They have to be,” he assures himself. “They agreed to come here.” It wasn’t that Tony wants them there, it was that Tony had been advised that it would be wise that they do. The UN wants them back on American soil, back under their thumb. Tony has no intentions of this going the UN’s way, but he doesn’t much care for putting his own neck on the line for them either.

“Are you going to tell them the Sokovia Accords have been repealed?” Stephen asks.

Tony shakes his head and says, “not yet. Not until the new contracts have been drafted. We were caught off guard the last time, we didn’t have a refutation ready. So we signed. Things happened too fast for us to form a proper rebuttal. We’ll be prepared this time,” he says. “We’ll have the upper hand.” As far as Rogers and the others know, they have a pardon in the works.

Stephen nods. “My offer to take Rogers still stands.”

Tony snorts and can’t help but grin at the sorcerer. He gestures to the door. “Lead the way, Doctor.” Stephen smiles and gladly spins on his heel and strides through the compound. Tony can’t help but feel, as he crosses the threshold from his office, that he is taking stride into No Man’s Land.

Striding into the lounge, Tony feels no small ounce of anxiety bubble in the pit of his stomach. Stephen takes up stance beside him, a reassuring presence that Tony wishes he could simply hide behind.

Voices can be heard as they near the lounge room, a communal area that had quickly turned into a playground for the younger prospective members. It is usually filled with the laughter of Peter, Chavez, and all their high school friends they've felt need to drag along. Right now, however, the teens are in school and the room is replaced with voices Tony never much cared to hear again. The foosball and ping-pong tables sit abandoned and no obnoxious teen-oriented drama or video game is playing out on the wide television.

The chatting and amicable laughter come to a sudden halt as Tony enters the room. It is as if someone has turned off the sound for as silent as the room grows -- like Tony is the bad guy here. He feels the hair on his arms bristle and his chest grow tight. He resists the urge to rub a palm across the reactor, just to assure himself it is still in place.

The silence is thick and it’s Rogers who volunteers himself and breaks it. He holds out a hand and the engineer takes an immediate, involuntary, step back.

Stephen tenses and frowns as he watches the Captain closely; clinically.

“Hello, Tony,” Rogers says.

Tony eyes the hand before folding his own behind his back, his expression schooled and neutral. “Right, I assume you all know where your rooms are. Your quarters have gone untouched in your absence. There’s been major construction, however, since you’ve been away, so should you need assistance finding your way around, Hill is almost always on campus, or feel free to address FRIDAY. She’s officially wired through the entire facility.”

Rogers, looking like a kicked dog, lets his hand drop and Sam Wilson pats him on the arm.

Stephen inwardly smirks. Clearly, Rogers isn't used to rejection, least of all from Tony.

“Thank you, Tony,” the Captain says.

Tony nods. “If nobody has any questions-”

“Oh, I’ve got one,” Barton speaks up. “Yeah, how far on the grounds are we allowed to go before we get _zapped?_ We’re prisoners, aren’t we, Tone?” The familiar form of address feels wrong and clunky when paired with the hostility Barton is projecting. He seems to notice it too, his face growing pink.

Tony sighs. “You aren’t _prisoners,_ Clint.”

“But we’re not allowed to leave, yeah?” Wanda asks, her accent thick from her own upset. “What is the difference?”

“You of all people should know the difference, Miss Maximoff,” Tony bites.

“Watch your tone, Stark,” Natasha steps in, her expression stern.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Give me a break, Romanoff. It’s not like this was my idea,” he says. “If I had things my way you’d still be in a fucking jungle.”

“This situation wouldn’t even exist if you didn’t sell out the team to the UN,” Sam Wilson starts.

Tony swallows everything he wants to say. Now isn’t the time, he can’t do this right now. He’s tired and he’s pissed and Steven fucking Rogers is standing _right. there._

“You are in this position because of your own decisions,” Stephen cuts in. “So maybe own up to that rather than place all of your shit on Stark.”

“I thought we agreed that you stay silent?” Tony asks.

“You said it, I never agreed,” is his quick reply.

Tony sighs. “No, you can’t leave the grounds,” he clarifies. “Not my idea, but, again, the UN’s. So really it would be wise of you to go along with it if you don’t want the CIA storming this place and arresting you. It’s temporary,” he continues. “Three weeks, max.”

They all look intrigued but it’s only Rogers who asks, “what do you mean?”

“I’m working on it okay. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He goes to leave and nearly accomplishes as much before his path is suddenly blocked by six feet of super soldier. “What do you want?”

“I was hoping we could talk,” he says.

Tony’s frown sharpens and he says, “later. I have business to attend. Two fucking years and I’m still cleaning up _your_ messes, Rogers.” He brushes past Rogers leaving the super soldier looking wounded.

Stephen follows after Tony as he leaves. “I’m surprised.”

“About?”

“How restrained you were,” he says. “Pepper would be proud. You could have hit him, I would have portaled him to Mount Everest before he had the chance to lay a hand on you.”

“What part of ‘can’t leave this compound’ did you not hear?”

Stephen shrugs. “No one would know.”

Tony snorts. “We’re supposed to take the high ground.”

Stephen cocks his head and frowns. He could swear he heard Pepper say something very similar that morning as she rushed them out the door. He huffs. “The high ground is boring.”

“This is why Pep doesn’t like you,” Tony laughs.

Stephen looks appalled. “She told you that? No, she didn’t, I don’t believe you.”

Tony laughs and shakes his head. He could kiss the man, but he refrains.

“Pepper loves me,” he says. “I feed and water you and make sure you get sunlight.”

“I’m not a houseplant!” Tony complains, following Stephen into his office.

 

* * *

 

They’re in the training room, sparring, and Tony’s enjoying himself more than he has in awhile. Having the “exiles” as they were, moping about the base for the past few days has had Tony on his toes. He feels like a winded coil, ready to spring at any given notice. General Ross once compared him to a wind-up toy, Tony thinks that may have been more accurate then he’d like to admit. So he doesn’t think about it.

They’re going through basic defenses against magical attacks, it’s a routine practice they go through once a week or so. Today they’re working on out of suit defenses. Tony had tried arguing that he would never be without the suit, not with the number of precautions he’s taken since the Mandarin and especially since Siberia. But the protests fell on deaf ears. To level the playing field a little, Stephen is going cloakless.

Tony watches Stephen conjure a staff with a few stunted hand movements and a twirl of his wrist. Tony takes a defensive stance, squaring his shoulders and raising his fists. He takes measured breaths to calm himself and not call the suit by reflex.

Tony ducks and parries a swing from the staff, feeling it bounce off his forearm were a bruise will likely form. He had told Stephen not to hold back, and while he was clearly not afraid to use force, Tony could tell he was still restraining himself.

Tony wears padded sparring gloves, but can still feel the sharp pain of his knuckles as they make contact with the staff several more times. He grins when he cuffs Stephen across the jaw and the man takes a step back. The victory is sweet while it lasts. Tony feels his breath escape him as his back hits the mat. “Damn it!” He kicks out and catches Stephen by his ankles and brings the man down to his level. Tony’s on top of him in an instant, but it’s short-lived.

He gasps when Stephen flips them both with little effort.

_Fucking magic._

Stephen pins him, his arms caging Tony in. He grins wickedly. “This looks familiar,” he drawls.

“Ha! You wish you were,” Tony scoffs. Stephen doesn’t put up much of a fight when Tony flips them. “Now _this_ is the view _I_ remember.” There’s a lot Tony could get away with while in the positions they’re in, but something has the hairs on the back of his neck raising and he sits up, sitting on Stephen’s legs, and sees Rogers standing there. He’s standing in the doorway and looking half annoyed and half like he’s got a stick shoved way far up his ass.

Tony groans and shoves Stephen in the chest and the sorcerer flops down against the mat with a laugh. Tony stands, brushing himself off and asks, “what do you want?”

Rogers shifts his weight from foot to foot and Stephen quickly stands the moment he notices the other’s presence.

“I was hoping we could talk,” Rogers says. “I’ve been looking for you all week, but they’ve been telling me you haven’t been around.” He smiles wanly.

“I’ve been busy,” Tony says.

“Cleaning up our messes,” Rogers says. “Yeah, you said.”

 _“Your_ messes. Not ours, not yours and mine. Just yours.”

Rogers frowns. “I get it, Tony.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think that you do,” he says. “You left a lot of shit in your wake when you went off to hide in Wakanda. A lot of shit, Rogers. And you left me here to clean it all up, so thank you for that. You wanted to talk, let’s talk,” he said bitterly. “Let’s talk about how you’re a self-centered, self-righteous, asshole who hides behind your stars and stripes and that holier-than-thou iconography your time on ice has given you!” He takes a breath. “You wanna talk, start talking!”

Steve exhales, his brows doing a little twitch. He was well versed in how sharp and cutting Tony could become when worked up; those times he was well and truly angry. He hadn’t realized this was going to be one of those times. “Wow, alright. Don’t hold back, Stark.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

Stephen makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Should I…?” He gestures towards the exit.

Tony waves him off. “Do whatever you want.”

“Right.” Stephen nods and slinks from the room with an eyeroll.

“So you and he…?” Rogers asks once Strange is out of earshot.

“Really? That’s what you want to lead with? Whether I’m sleeping with Strange?” Tony asks. He shakes his head and turns away. “What did you want to say, Rogers?”

He shrugs. “I mean shouldn’t we talk?” he asks. “You’re Director now and I-”

“You’re what? Team leader?”

“We both used to be.”

“And now we’re not. I’m director of the Avengers, I’m not the unofficial pack leader like you and I once were. I run this operation, I take care of all the boring work behind the scenes. I’m making sure you and the others don’t wind up in Guantanamo Bay and I’m securing our position as something other than government lackeys.”

“What are you talking about?” Rogers asks.

“You’ll be filled in once it concerns you,” he says. “It’s need to know, and you don’t need to know.” Tony half expects him to pull rank, whip his unofficial Captain status out and throw it in Tony’s face like it’s supposed to mean something.

“What is your problem, Stark?”

“You’re not team captain anymore, Rogers. You and your little crew of loyal dogs are the only ones that still think so. This isn’t Wakanda, you aren’t in charge of them anymore.”

“They don’t think I’m in charge of them-”

“Someone ought to tell them that, then. Wanda acts like a skittish dog around Vision like she’s too scared to approach him. Like it would be betraying _you_ if she did. And Romanoff… well, Nat and I have always had our own sort of song and dance, but she likes you more than me. She’d slit my throat if it were for you, so thanks for that. That’s exactly what I need.”

“Tony-”

He hits Rogers in the chest with a gloved fist. There’s not much force behind it, but it would have knocked any average human off balance. Steve just stands stock still, entirely unaffected, other than the twitch of his brow and the set of his jaw that signals his annoyance. Tony isn't going to let Steve guilt trip him, he's done with being walked all over. “I don’t really wanna hear it, Rogers.” With that, he goes, tugging his gloves off as he makes his exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is completely ignoring Clint's characterization in Civil War. I'm leaning more on Matt Fraction Clint. The one true Barton.


	4. This Is No Bridget Jones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> are they dating? Tony can't tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah I love you guys! You're all too sweet. I'm really enjoying writing this, more than I've enjoyed writing anything in awhile.
> 
> Chapter title from the Wombat's song "Kill the Director."

Tony doesn’t think they’re dating, but it’s surprisingly difficult to tell.

They’re almost always together; almost always in the same room. Stephen will come by the Tower and lounge around Tony’s space like he owns it; he’ll sit silently in Tony’s lab while the mechanic works, or he’ll rest on Tony’s couch and watch shitty reruns, and eat his food. They see each other almost every day, once a week minimum. Enough that Tony grows used to seeing the Doctor so often that he misses him when he’s away; notes his absence.

He’s attached.

When they aren’t together, they’re texting. Tony gets messages from the man while he’s twelve-thousand miles away. He gets normal texts and stupid texts; genuine inquiries to dumb jokes.

It’s charming.

He doesn’t think they’re dating.

They fuck, occasionally. He isn’t keeping track (seven times, starting six months before the others came back). The last time was after Stephen is a few drinks in on a Saturday night in Tony’s garage. He’s trying to comprehend Stephen’s magic, jotting down notes and asking an endless stream of questions that pour out of him incessantly.

Tony hasn’t had a drop of alcohol all evening, but he’s feeling plenty intoxicated just from the heat of the sorcerer’s breath and the timbre of his voice. The kiss is intoxicating, more so than any drink or drug; a high he never wants to come down from. They end up in Tony’s bed and he can’t find it in himself to be regretful in the morning.

But they aren’t dating.

There’s a definite infatuation there that Tony’s never felt before.

He’s felt something similar towards Pepper and Rhodey once, but Jarvis (the _real, living, flesh and blood,_ Jarvis) had explained that was just what friendship felt like.

This is different.

This has no hang-ups, no dynamic of power, nothing that stands between them. This is an empty slate. Two men of equal standing. Tony has had some of the best conversations with this man that he has had with anyone. Stephen Strange’s mind is one that keeps up with Tony’s own. It’s something he has never encountered before and he _loves_ it, he _thrives_ off of it, he _craves_ it. Tony enjoys being around Stephen, he wants him around, he notes when he’s away.

He doesn’t think they’re dating.

They might be, he should really ask.

“Are we dating?”

Stephen pauses, looking up from his book. He’s reading some ancient divine text on hypnotism and telepathy, research stolen from Wong’s library. He sits across from Tony at his workbench, his head down and a hand tugging at his hair as he concentrates, completely engrossed in the text. After a moment, he says, “no?”

“Okay.”

Stephen sets his book aside just to frown at Tony. “Okay?”

“You’re the one that said no,” Tony says.

 _“Are_ we dating?” he asks.

“I asked you!” Tony says and flicks at a hologram that's dancing in front of them, displaying suit specs.

“Wha- I mean, if you have to ask then the answer is no, isn’t it?” Stephen says.

It’s a good point, so Tony shrugs and goes back to typing out a string of code.

“Are we dating?” Stephen asks, more to himself than Tony and sounding as though the past several months are just now dawning on him. “I don’t think I’ve ever had this discussion.” Having 'The Talk' for the first time while pushing forty was probably unusual, but Stephen had never had a wonderful relationship with dating.

“You and me both, pal,” Tony says.

Stephen smiles. “Do you want to?” he asks.

Tony feels his chest flutter like he’s a teenager. He hasn’t felt this way about anyone in years. Whitney Frost, boarding school. He was sixteen and she was nearing nineteen. They had only kissed because Ty had told him he was too much of a bitch not to do it, but he’d liked her for years. Tony was pretty sure she was in maximum security lock up these days. His track record with relationships was _really_ fucked.

“Have this discussion?”

“No,” Stephen laughs. _“Date.”_

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“Yes, we should date,” Tony says. “That is- if you want to, I mean- we’ve already fucked. But I like having you around. I get it if you don’t want to, I’m a mess. I couldn’t make it work with Pepper, and she’s a saint, so if you don’t want to- I’m a handful, you know, I’m, I- I'm not-”

He grins against Stephen’s lips as the sorcerer kisses him, his hand cupping Tony’s jaw. It’s sudden but it’s not urgent. Tony doesn’t feel like this is something he needs, but god does he _want_ it. More than maybe anything he’s ever wanted. It’s too much and it’s not enough and Tony can feel every tender emotion this man hides behind a veneer of indifference as it pours into him. He’s a pro at masking his emotions, but he’s no match for Tony. He’s been able to read him since day one.

They’ve kissed before, of course. But never in a way that isn't a precursor to sex. This- this is anything but demanding, this is languid and lingering and Tony doesn’t want it to end. 

Tony feels himself relax before he’s suddenly running his fingers through Stephen’s hair, the greying locks soft against Tony’s callased palm. He’s several years younger than Tony, but he’s twice as grey and pulling it off and Tony _loves_ it. He’s loved it since that night at that gala. Wanted to tell him so since he portaled them both to Nepal in a West Side alley between two dumpsters and damp asphalt.

“So you actually, you know, like me and shit?” Tony asks softly once they separate.

Stephen sits on the table in front of Tony, and his thumbs brush against Tony’s cheeks. It’s funny, Tony had been so caught up in all the reasons Stephen shouldn’t want him, he hadn’t even noticed him cross the workbench. Now, they mirror a position from months ago, when Stephen held a flame in his palms and Tony tried not to burn. “Of course I like you.”

Tony lets out a breathy laugh and shuts his eyes. “I knew you liked the sex,” he says. “Not to blow myself here, but I don’t have much of a problem telling when someone’s not enjoying themselves in bed. And you, Doctor, have definitely been enjoying yourself.”

Stephen chuckles. “Don’t be crass-”

“Crass?” Tony laughs. “I’m just…” he shakes his head and Stephen grows concerned. “I haven’t… been in a relationship since-” he sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“You and Rogers?” he asks.

Tony frowns at the sorcerer. “I’m that transparent? _Christ.”_ Tony groans and drops into his chair, his head connecting with the steel table top.

“Not transparent, per say, just…” Stephen shrugs. “He’s Captain America. I’ve seen footage of the two of you in the field. There was a seamlessness to the way the two of you worked, like you were always on the same page. A lot of people thought it.”

“Yeah, I saw the gossip headlines, _E News_ and all the other shit. We were never a _thing,”_ he says. “We never talked about it, and by the time we should Sokovia happened. I might’ve loved him.” The admission makes Tony’s stomach churn like he had swallowed acid. He hates it, but there it is. It’s Stephen that pulls him from his thoughts, for which Tony is grateful, by running a hand through Tony's hair and leaving it to caress his cheek. “I hated him, too,” Tony says. “Probably why it’s so easy to do it now.”

Stephen chuffs. “Hated him?”

Tony shakes his head. “You have no idea. The first year was _so_ _not_ smooth sailing. I- my dad loved him, you know? Always talked about him, never stopped. Captain America _this,_ Steve Rogers _that._ Howard spent more time looking for Cap than he did raising his son. I… I resented Steve because of it. But, fuck, these days what does any of it matter?” He runs his hands through his hair and shakes his head. “None of it matters,” he says. “Can we not talk about Steve Rogers in the middle of me trying to tell you how much I like you?”

“We can go back to me,” Stephen says with a smirk.

“Pepper says your ego is almost as big as mine,” Tony says.

Stephen laughs. “Does she?”

He nods. “Thinks that’s why we get along. She says our egos feed off of each other.”

“You should keep me around then,” he says.

Tony sets his chin in his hand and grins. He thinks maybe he will.


	5. Clint Barton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen becomes... acquainted with the new (old?) members

It’s a nice day out and the team has gathered outside to run training exercises. The others have been back on the compound for almost three weeks and Tony’s managed to avoid Rogers like the plague. Tony stands on the sidelines with Strange and Vision while Carol runs Peter and America Chavez through routine exercises like an expert drill instructor.

“Do you think Barton will be alright?” Stephen asks, startling Tony out of his focus. He’s been watching the teenagers with a close eye, careful to make sure no harm comes to them, but that they’ll be fully capable of defending themselves in the real world. Stephen admires his devotion to the up and comers. “Adjusting, I mean.”

“Hmm? Yeah, he’ll be fine,” Tony says sounding more sure of it than Stephen was expecting.

Stephen hasn’t been able to get a good read on the archer. Their first encounter was Stephen watching Barton snap at Tony, so not the best foot to start off on. He has been pissed since they arrived, though. Hostile and with a tendency to lash out at anyone in passing. “Why are you so sure?” he asks.

Tony shrugs and says, “because Baton’s a good guy. He’s pissed off, but he’ll come around. I think he’s just angry that he had to spend two years in Africa. Guy gets his feathers ruffled if he spends more than an afternoon outside of Bed-Stuy.”

Stange raises a brow. “You two were friends.”

Again, Tony shrugs. “I like him. We got along, he’s easy to talk to and he never says no to a stiff drink. Guy is the _least_ capable with electronics though, I had to help the man hook up his BluRay. Why? Did he snap at you?”

“And everyone else.”

“Eh. Like I said, he’ll come around. Just give him a shot.” He shoots Stephen a wink.

Stephen intends to do so, if only to make Tony happy.

 

* * *

 

Stephen hangs around the base more than Tony. He hangs around mainly because it’s somewhere to be other than his own apartment and other than Tony’s tower. They’re dating now, he and Tony, officially, but he wants to give Tony his space, he doesn’t want the man to feel crowded. On the other hand, Stephen hates his apartment. It’s uptown and it’s expensive and it’s sterile and it’s so impersonal he despises it.

So Stephen hangs around the Avengers compound instead.

It’s not homely, exactly, but it’s lively for sure. There’s always someone somewhere up to something. Before the others came back from Wakanda, Stephen would constantly run into a staff member or Vision self-educating himself on human culture or teens screaming over a match of foosball in the lounge while they ignored their school work. Now, however, it’s like a minefield.

Stephen has already had to dodge Rogers several times, and he keeps seeming to run into Wanda in the process. The witch is skittish around him, he wishes she wasn’t; he’s curious about her abilities. He’s never met someone able to control magic without having learnt it. She was _born_ with it. He can’t _imagine_ the power she must have.

He’s headed for the kitchen, in search of fresh coffee, when he runs into Clint Barton. The man is in sweats and a t-shirt, looking like he just rolled out of bed, and pouring himself a mug of coffee. A good amount of it misses the target and pours down the side of the mug, making a pool on the counter.

Clint curses half-heartedly under his breath. He takes a long sip of his coffee, unbothered by the steaming temperature, before swiping a dish towel.

“Afternoon,” Steven says by way of announcing himself. He hears Tony in the back of his mind, telling him to give the man a shot. Of course, now, he’s not sure if he had meant it earnestly or only making a pun.

Barton startles and more hot coffee dribbles over the rim of the too full mug, splashing by his socked feet. He sighs, “coffee, why?”

Stephen has the decency to feel half sorry for surprising the archer, although he thought he would have noticed him. While not exactly imposing, Stephen is hardly small or stealthy.

Barton looks tired though, well and truly. As though he has not slept well last night nor several leading up to.

“I don’t think we’ve met properly,” Stephen says pleasantly enough.

“No, we haven’t,” Barton agrees.

“Stephen Strange.” He offers him his hand and the archer takes it.

“Um, Clint Barton. So you, um, you’re Tony’s friend?” There’s something ebbing on jealousy in his voice. “I mean, you two seem pretty close and stuff. He seems to like you.”

“I suppose he might.”

Barton snorts into his mug. “Yeah, Tony doesn’t really like anybody,” he says. “I mean, he’s friendly enough, but that’s ‘cos he’s a good guy.” He shrugs.

 _He’s a good guy._ Stephen finds it funny that Tony described Barton just the same.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “He’s friendly but he doesn’t really _do_ friends, you know what I mean?”

Stephen nods. “I know what you mean. He’s very careful about who he lets in.”

Barton nods. “Yeah.”

“He still likes you, you know?” Stephen feels compelled to say. He pours himself a mug of coffee while it’s still hot, stirring in creamer and too much sugar. “Even after all this shit, you seem to be the only one he’s not pissed at.”

He snorts. “Why the fuck not? I don’t deserve some kind of pass.”

“Tony seems to think that you do.” Stephen shrugs. He can’t pretend to understand it, he only knows what Tony has told him. “Look,” he says, “I don’t know you, but Tony likes you and seems to think you’re a good person. You’re the only one out of the ones of you that took off that he still seems to trust. So,” he shrugs again, “I’m trying to extend an olive branch or whatever, I guess.”

Barton looks a little shell shocked.

“You haven’t talked to him yet.” It’s not accusatory, but it’s direct in the way only he knows how to be.

Barton shakes his head. “I’ve been avoiding him pretty hard.”

“Try to,” he says. “And I think you could both use whatever friends you can get, right now. I’ll see you later, Barton,” he says and grabs his coffee.

“Uh, it’s Clint!” he hears the archer call after him.

Stephen laughs and shouts back over his shoulder, “Stephen!”

 

* * *

 

Stephen doesn’t expect anything to come of his encounter with Barton in the kitchen. A few days come and go and they see each other around base two more times. They don’t talk much, only exchange pleasantries and keep things moving.

He sees Barton knocking on Tony’s office door one morning, he’s on his way there himself, Tony’s breakfast from the coffee shop he likes in hand. He waits though, watching as Tony opens the door and lets the archer in. Stephen smiles and resolves himself to give them at least ten minutes before checking that they haven’t killed each other.

By the time Barton exits Tony’s office, he’s looking much more self-assured than he had in the kitchen that morning. When he enters Tony’s office, handing him the to-go box of eggs and bacon and a fresh coffee, Tony looks lighter as well. There’s a positive change. It’s then that, to Stephen, Barton becomes Clint.

They’re in the lounge one evening, an evening where Stephen has managed to drag Tony out of his lab and away from his office, a feat he’s proud of in and of itself. The promise of alcohol had helped. Tony’s back on the occasional drink, but he and Stephen had made a deal that he wouldn’t let Tony go further than two.

They’re in the lounge with Peter, America Chavez, and Clint. Stephen’s happy he and Tony found some sort of common ground, as the two of them get on obnoxiously well. A house on fire. Actually, Stephen’s beginning to regret his pep talk to Clint. Whatever movie America put on can hardly be heard over the sound of the two of them cackling.

“Would you shut up?” America says. “We are watching a movie!”

Peter lays propped up by the elbows, grinning at the billionaire, the movie entirely forgotten.

“You’re watching _Bridget Jones’s Diary!”_ Tony says. “Why do you even want to watch this movie? It’s older than you and it’s not like it’s a classic.”

“This movie is from two-thousand-one,” Clint says. “They’re… _oh shit_ this movie _is_ older than them.”

“Why the fuck do you know the year _Bridget Jones’s Diary_ was made?” Tony asks.

Clint only looks a little embarrassed. “I _like_ this movie.”

Tony snorts. “You’re such an old lady.”

“Because I like rom-coms?”

“Because you like _this_ rom-com!”

“I like Renée Zellweger.”

“I like Colin Firth,” Stephen chimes and Tony can’t suppress a snort.

“You would,” Tony snorts.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Stephen asks incredulously.

“He has great hair.”

“And…?” Stephen prompts.

 _“I_ have great hair.”

Stephen laughs. “You think I like you because I find Colin Firth handsome? You look nothing alike.” He watched as Clint devolves into giggles and snorts on the sofa, and Tony fails to suppress his own snort of laughter.

“Clint?”

And just like that Stephen watches all amusement drain from Tony’s expression, his shoulders tensing and losing the carefree body language Stephen had been so relieved to see. Stephen turns around on the sofa and glares at Steve Rogers.

Rogers is accompanied by Miss Romanoff, who looks as unimpressed as ever. She shares a look with Clint who only grins wider in return at the redhead.

“Did you need something?” Clint asks.

“Wanda…” Rogers starts, “wanted to watch a movie.” He gestures at the screen. “But it looks like you guys already started one.” He looks like a kicked dog and Stephen hates him in that moment.

“Yeah, sorry you weren’t invited,” Tony says, voice dripping with insensarity. “It’s a fun people only party.”

“Funny, Stark,” Romanoff says, although Stephen notes that it lacks any real venom. He’s yet to see her outrightly hostile towards Tony, which surprises him maybe more than it should but Stephen can’t get a good read on her. He thinks that it’s that way by design. There’s something about her he doesn’t trust and from what Tony has told him he’s not mislead in that thought. She was a spy, he remembers; a bad guy before she was a good one. He thinks, maybe, had things been different, he might actually like her. “Still with the attitude?”

“Still with the misguided morals, Romanoff?”

She snorts softly and Stephen thinks she might be hiding a smile.

Rogers gets this pinched expression on his face and Stephen’s really beginning to understand what Tony means when he says “stick up the ass” expression. “Tony-”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Stephen interjects.

“I’m sorry?”

Stephen makes a “cut-it-out” gesture with his hands and eats a handful of popcorn from the bowl that sits limply in Tony’s lap.

Rogers huffs and looks squarely at Tony before his gaze drifts back to Clint. “Wanda wanted to know if you wanted to watch _Jurassic Park_ with us.”

“Yeah, tell her maybe some other time,” Clint says. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

Natasha nods and steals a handful of the popcorn from Tony’s bowl before marching away. Stephen wonders if she ever walks without a purpose, or if that confident stride was her only way of movement.

Rogers remains, looking as pinch-faced as ever. “Tony, I was hoping we could talk-”

“I don’t know what gave you the impression that was a good idea,” Tony says.

“I thought maybe, after the last time, you’d want to-”

“You thought that I would be less upset,” Tony says with so much faux cheer that it makes Stephen’s heart clench. He wants to throw himself at Rogers and maybe portal him into a different dimension. Would Tony be mad if he just popped Rogers into the mirror dimension for a spell? “You thought,” Tony says, “that I’d have _cooled off,_ didn’t cha?” he asked.

Rogers shifts and Stephen knows he’s been caught. “Look, Tony, I just want to have a conversation, you don’t always have to be a complete ass.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Rogers rolls his eyes with a huff and marches away.

Clint snorts. “I hate when mom and dad fight.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just really like Clint, so ofc he's the first I make sure Stephen and Tony are on good ground with.


	6. Natasha Romanoff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen meets the lovely Miss Romanoff. Although, he might be in need of a new adjective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a bit short, but next time is MUCH longer, the longest yet I think.

Stephen thinks that maybe he should stop hanging around the compound so often. He’s getting exceedingly exhausted of running into people he doesn’t like around base. The not-SHIELD staff, the janitors, and Barton are one thing. The rest of the “ex-vengers” are another altogether. To Stephen’s estimate, he has run into Natasha Romanoff approximately six times since their first day on the compound (and his memory is _very_ good). This is including formal meetings and awkward encounters in communal areas. He thinks that he might have shortened his life when he ran into Romanoff in the lounge on a Tuesday afternoon while she was painting her nails and watching shit television with an ever-depressed looking Rogers. Stephen had never found nail polish so terrifying before in his life, and he’s seen Christine at her most vexed.

In comparison, he almost prefers his awkward, short encounters with Wanda that consist solely of her squeaking and scuttling away before he can utter a word.

Stephen runs into Natasha Romanoff on the morning of their fifth week back in the states. It’s nearing four in the morning and Stephen is only up and around because he’s been in Nepal for four days and his sleep cycle is completely shot. He’s wide awake. It was the mid-day when he left Kamar-Taj, and he finds himself wandering the grounds in lieu of nothing to do while the rest of the team is fast asleep. He wants to bother Tony, wants to part on him the knowledge he has found in the library and the new trick he can do (Tony’s the only one he trusts himself to practice his growing telepathy skills with), but the engineer had (shockingly!) been asleep.

He finds himself pacing the compound’s west wing, passing the lounge and the kitchen and the dorms. He feels anxious with all the knowledge he has acquired and the energy he can just barely contain that's built up inside of him, he can feel it all the way to his fingertips. He finds himself in the gym.

There is a haze outside, the sky already beginning to illuminate and fill with a dull, muted light. Moisture clings to the expansive glass walls from the early morning’s past rainfall, leaving the world in a fog that expands and disappears into the treeline. Stephen always liked the overcast weather when he would travel upstate as a kid.

The gym isn’t a common place to be occupied at four in the morning, therefore Stephen feels his surprise is justified when he finds himself face-to-face with Miss Natasha Romanoff. She’s dressed down in joggers and a sports bra, her hands wrapped and Nike’s scuffed. With fewer clothes on she is no less terrifying.

Stephen, however, wishes he had more on than his sweats. Like maybe his tunic and cloak and the Iron Man armor.

“Doctor,” Romanoff drawls. She looks like she’s been in here for some time, sweat gathering along her hairline.

“Agent Romanoff,” he says with a nod. “It’s somewhat early for a workout, don’t you think?”

She looks unimpressed. “Says the other person awake at this hour.”

“Jet lag.” He watches her get a few hits in on her punching bag, but after only a few, Stephen finds the courage to say, “can I ask you something?”

She looks at him and there’s a depth to her gaze that unsettles him, like she sees through him and inside of him all at once. Like he has been split open and pulled apart for her to peer around inside of. Her eyes remind him of Kaecilius’ and it makes him feel uneasy.

“Since you’re up,” he continues. “Feel free to say no.”

“What’s on your mind?” she asks.

Stephen swallows. “Steve Rogers.”

She blinks but indicates nothing towards surprise. She doesn’t say anything either, so Stephen takes that as his go-ahead to continue.

“Tony told me they used to be, hm,” he shrugs, _“something._ But he hasn’t said much more than that and I haven’t asked.”

“You want all of their dirty little secrets?” she asks. “Why are you interested?” She narrows her eyes at him, assessing him. She reminds him of a Terminator and he wonders if she's cataloging whatever she finds away to use against him at a later date. He imagines she was a _very_ good spy. “You’re sleeping with him. I should have noticed sooner.”

“We’re dating,” he says, feeling the need to clarify. Part of him just likes to say it.

She does look surprised by that. “Oh? I’m impressed. Tony wouldn’t even label what he’d had with Steve and he’d been smitten with him for over a year.”

Stephen frowned. Tony had never said, but why should he? Stephen didn’t tell Tony all about his past relationships and Christine. It wasn’t important.

“Steve would’ve definitely called it dating,” she continues.

“That’s sort of what I wanted to ask you about?”

“Tony and Steve’s relationship?”

He shakes his head. “No. Only Rogers’ intentions towards Tony. He wants to talk to him, he’s made that abundantly clear. He doesn’t,” he feels stupid asking but he can’t help himself, “want Tony back, does he?”

Romanoff shakes her head. “I couldn’t say. I haven’t asked. Tony and Steve’s past has always been their own, I’ve kept my nose out of it. Maybe you should ask him if you’re so curious.” She places her hands on her hips, then says, “I have a question.”

“Seems only fair.” Quid pro quo and all that.

“Tony said we would be confined to this compound for three weeks tops,” she says, arms folding over her chest. “We’re on week five.”

Stephen nods. “His timeframe has been pushed back longer than he’s happy with.”

She cocks her head and Stephen knows she means for him to elaborate.

“He’s in the middle of talks with the UN, it’s going slower than he would like. You know Tony, he’s a wordsmith, but even he can’t speed up bureaucracy. He’s fighting against a precedent Rogers and the others sealed in concrete, and to him, Rogers is the face of that fuck up. It’s been years and Tony’s still dealing with the stress of the Accords every day, so forgive him if he doesn't get everything wrapped up with a nice bow within your timeframe.”

Romanoff nods but doesn’t look pleased.

Stephen wonders what she expected from him. Did she suspect he would reveal to her every detail, or maybe she thought she could read what she wanted off of him? He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t much care, but he’s certain she didn’t find what she was looking for. She’s a trained assassin and a master manipulator, but he’s a genius. He knows how to play his hand. Even if it shakes.

He does find, however, that Romanoff looks… _sad_. It’s the only emotions other than indifferent distaste he’s ever seen on her face, but he recognizes it immediately.

“Steve was horrible to him. I betrayed him,” she says very softly but with little inflection. “After all that he’s still trying to do what’s best for us.”

“Tony’s a better person than you.” He mouth says it without his mind’s permission, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

“I know.” She smiles at Stephen. It’s unrestrained and while small it alters every feature of her face. She sighs and begins removing her gloves. “I’m glad that he has you.”

It surprises Stephen, more than anything else has this morning.

“Maybe you’ll do things right.” _Like we never did,_ goes unspoken, but it echoes around Stephen's mind like a ping-pong ball.

Stephen hopes she's right. He doesn’t trust her, not any more than he did when he woke up this morning, but he thinks something may have shifted between them for the better.

He doesn’t much feel like getting a work out in anymore.


	7. Wanda Maximoff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wizard v. Wizard
> 
> Fight!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they’ve never called her the Scarlet Witch in the films so far, so I’m making the name Stephen’s idea.

Stephen is somewhat relieved when he finally finds himself alone with Wanda. ‘The Scarlet Witch’ as he’s taken to dubbing her in his head. It seems fitting. Most of the magic he’s seen her wield has been on YouTube (he may have googled her, he was curious and there is  _plenty_ of footage of the Sokovia incident on YouTube and Reddit and Twitter), but from what he can tell it’s always manifested in this burning, captivating, red glow.

They are discussing training and teamwork and Stephen sits tensely in his spot at the conference table beside Tony. The engineer looks tired, and Stephen knows he hasn’t slept in days. Rogers looks annoyed, Sam Wilson sat dutifully by his side. Clint is tapping a pen up until Bobbie smacks it out of his hand, earning a ghost of a smile from Romanoff. Scott, Hope, and Carol are having a conversation of their own, having completely checked out of the discussion. Wanda sits, making moon eyes at Vision who seems almost entirely oblivious to her presence.

Then there is Maria; dutiful, patient Agent Maria Hill who sits with her head in her hands and a longsuffering look upon her face. She’s at the head of the table, despite Tony being Director - she has taken a large portion of those responsibilities upon herself and Tony’s not a selfish leader. “We need to make a schedule,” Maria insists pointedly, attempting to put them back on track. “Otherwise it’s all a mess! We have limited training rooms and only the one for containing magic! We are making a schedule.”

“Fine,” Tony says stiffly, swaying his chair back and forth. “The magic training room isn’t a huge issue. The only witch we got are Stephen and Wanda,” he says, jerking a thumb at Stephen.

“I’m not a witch,” Stephen says with a frown.

“Shh. Yes, you are, Glinda.”

“Okay, good,” Maria says. “Then we’ll allocate a time for each of you to train together and with each of the others.” She nods towards Stephen and Wanda each and makes a note on her tablet. “We’re a team, whether some of you like it or not, and we need to be entirely aware of each other's strengths and weaknesses in order to work best in the field.”

“Why are we bothering?” Clint asks. The archer was still in his sweatpants and tugged at the ends of his sleeves till they covered his fingertips. “Half of us can’t even leave if there is a crisis and the rest of you can’t do shit unless the UN signs a fucking form first.”

Romanoff looks at Tony expectantly, but Maria intervenes first.

“That’s irrelevant. We still need to be prepared, and this current arrangement is entirely temporary.”

 

* * *

 

“Be careful with Maximoff,” Tony warns him later the next day. The two of them are in Tony’s garage, having lunch from the diner up the street that Tony likes. They have Tony’s order memorized and always try to waive their fee, but Tony always insists on paying and leaving an obscene tip.

Stephen swallows his food and asks, “what do you mean? I’m looking forward to training with her; with another sorcerer. It’s exciting: her magic, it’s different than mine.”

“Yes, it is,” Tony agrees.

“She was born with her powers, how is that not fascinating?!” Stephen is almost delirious with anticipation.

Tony shakes his head. “No, Stephen, she wasn’t.”

Stephen sets his fork down. “Well, she wasn’t _taught_ that, that’s for sure.” He had made it his business to know about the other institutions and temples like Kamar-Taj that taught mysticism. He had embraced his duty of Sorcerer Supreme with a surprising amount of responsibility and humility that Christine would never believe him capable of. He wonders, often, if the Ancient One would approve. He thinks and hopes so.

“Stephen, she was Hydra. She was a human guinea pig.”

His eyelids are a confused shudder as he considers the words. “She was an experiment?” The question tastes acidic on his tongue.

Tony nods.

He stands abruptly, the stool nearly toppling over behind him. “How?” he asks, entirely bewildered. “How is that possible!? How- how do they _embed_ magic into someone like that? That’s not _possible_ , Tony!” His mind whirs with the possibilities and what if’s and all that he doesn’t know and cannot be certain of.  _“Is that possible?”_ He had never heard of any such likelihood, not in his experience and not in any of the texts he has read, and he has read just about all of them at this point. He should ask Wong- he is going to ask Wong. “I mean, what I do... what I do is a taught skill, it’s not something that can be bestowed and taken away. _You!”_ He takes Tony by the head, surprising the billionaire. It is a loving grip, tender and careful, hands on each side of his head. He plants a kiss on Tony’s forehead and Tony grins widely. “Stubborn, scientific, _you_ could learn what I do if you weren’t so..." his hands flap about,  _"y_ _ou!_ So how in the name of reason do you intertwine magic into someone’s very being? It shouldn’t be possible.”

Tony shakes his head and says, “I don’t know. I wish I did, believe me. It's got to be fairly impressive science if it has _me_ drawing a blank. The Hydra files on it are lost, there’s nothing. The Maximoff's were on both SHIELD and Hydra’s radars for years, but all documentation of the actual experimentation is just gone. My best guess is safety protocols were in place to erase any sensitive data in case of a security breach. It's a shame, Fury should've just let me know what he wanted, I could have been in and out of Hydra's database without them ever knowing I was there.”

Stephen shakes his head and hums in agreement. “Why did Hydra choose her?”

“She volunteered.”

The whirring of Stephen's mind comes to a halt and he thinks something may have short-circuited or blown. “I’m sorry?”

Tony nods.

“Why? Why would _anyone_ volunteer _anything_ for Hydra?”

Tony sighs deeply. “Me."

“What?” he asks softly.

“She did it because of me.”

He shakes his head. "I don't follow."

When he looks at Tony, the mechanic looks old in a way that Stephen hasn't seen before. There's a world-weariness that sits on Tony's shoulders like lead weights and mortar bricks and the sorcerer wants to take him in his arms and kiss away whatever's wrong. “Stephen, sit down,” he says.

 

* * *

 

Stephen should have known, after the discussion that he and Tony had, that any training between him and Wanda Maximoff would be a bad idea. Stephen understands why she did it, he understands her motives perfectly. She grew up in a war zone; she was a kid, she was hurt, she was scared. She blamed Tony Stark because of the actions of Stark Industries. But Stephen knows Tony, and Tony didn’t attack her city. Tony had no hands in that war. Tony had no control.

_Had he known..._

Stephen can feel himself already growing tense the moment he takes a step into the training room. Wanda is already there, waiting for him, lacing up her sneakers. Stephen sees her and forces a pleasantly neutral expression in place. He nods her way. “Maximoff.”

“Strange,” she greets as she stands.

“So,” he begins, “how would you like to do this?”

She grins and her fingers spark. “I have a few ideas.” The spark of magic grows till its formed a proper sphere of raw energy.

Stephen ducks just as she hurls it at him. He grins and forms his own swell of energy in the palms of his hands and tosses it her way. He forms an energy shield to stop the next several blows she throws.

Wanda is unprepared when Stephen suddenly goes on the offensive. He conjures a staff and, with it, sweeps her feet out from under her. She growls and pulls herself to her feet before launching herself at him. There’s a genuine anger there that makes her sloppy, it takes Stephen by surprise, but he notices and takes advantage.

Clearly, she is unused to having an equal, or even a competitor when it comes to magic. She's sensitive about it; insecure.

Something in Wanda shifts and Stephen can see that this is no longer a training exercise for her. 

Her eyes are glowing with her magic and all Stephen needs to do is sidestep out of her way, but he’s feeling uncharacteristically cruel and justified in it. So, instead, while feeling himself rise several inches from the floor, he opens a portal before her that she is too enraged and slow to avoid. It opens and drops her from the ceiling, leaving her to collide harshly with the floor.

She grunts and yells.

Stephen feels a sharp stab within his mind and knows it's her; he only hadn’t expected her to be so bold. He shakes her out of his mind easily. When he began studying and teaching himself telepathy, defense was where he began his lessons. His mental barriers are much stronger than her's.

He watches her create a force field around herself before she blasts it at him.

It nearly throws him off his feet, but he manages well enough, feeling his own power begin to swell and warm his fingertips. He’s growing agitated. “Wanda-”

She throws herself at him a third time and Stephen shuts her down quickly. He forms a large energy shield that stops her in her tracks. She rages against it, so Stephen steps forwards and, before she can blast him straight in the face at point blank, he takes her by the wrist and manipulates her mind first. Nothing too cruel, just draining her of the rage she carries against him. He doesn’t know what she has against him, but he’s grown too annoyed to keep this up.

She falls to her knees, exhausted.

“You’re sloppy,” he tells her.

“I am more willing to fight than you are!”

“I’m fully aware of your _willingness_ for confrontation.”

“I have powers _because_ of _war!”_

“You were _given_ these powers,” Stephen says hotly. “Don’t think they can’t be taken away!”

“You wouldn’t dare!” she shouts.

“Wouldn’t I?” he asks. “It’s my duty as Sorcerer Supreme to prevent the misuse of magic, and from where I’m standing you have _plenty_ of strikes beside your name, Miss Maximoff. _Plenty_ of red in your ledger. I would be doing my _job_ if I took away your powers.”

“You can’t. That’s not possible.”

“No? How would you know? You wield your magic with an irresponsible entitlement! You’ve harmed people! And still, you persist in this delusional belief that this magic belongs to you!” He shakes his head, his cheeks hot and rosy pink with anger. “You don’t own your powers, Wanda, they were a gift.”

“I was a guinea pig!”

“At no one’s fault other than your own!”

He watched her swallow nervously, her fingertips sparking.

“What do you know about it!?” she yells.

“All that I need to!” he assures her. “For someone who offered themself up to a terrorist group for the _greater good,_ you’ve done a terribly greater amount of harm than good. You’ve done little else than be _selfish_ with your skills and frankly, I’m _disappointed.”_

She looks wounded by that and Stephen knows he’s hit a nerve.

“You’ve made mistakes,” he says.

She nods jerkily.

“You blamed Tony.”

“He-!”

“No. Listen to me, if you think you can continue to make excuses for your actions, then you don’t deserve these powers. I don’t want your excuses, I want you to do _better._ Do you understand me?” he asks.

Wanda blinks, her eyes watery but she swallows her emotions like an expert.

“I’m not going to shield you from the consequences like Rogers. You’re a sorcerer,” he tells her. “A less conventional one, but you are a sorcerer nonetheless.” He sighs. “Let me help you, Wanda.”

“What?” she breathes.

“I can train you,” he says. He surprises himself with the promise, but he means it all the same.

 

* * *

 

They begin the next day.

Tony is out of town with the United Nations, hopefully for the last time, and Stephen finds his schedule suddenly clear. All he had on was lunch and dinner with Tony and maybe a little something more _after,_ but he is a patient man if nothing else.

Stephen meets Wanda in the glass-encased porch that overlooks the foggy morning, rain sliding down the glass pane and filling the room with a peaceful patter. It’s one of Stephen’s favorite rooms in the compound; peaceful. He has brought several texts from Kamar-Taj, would have just brought them both to the temple if Wanda was allowed outside the compound. He thinks proper training would benefit her, would strengthen her and build character ( _god,_ he sounds like his father), but he promises to do his best with what he has. Wanda is hotheaded and brash, but she's also young and she's whip-smart and she's passionate. Stephen has seen that in her.

Even though Wanda’s powers were acquired in a much different fashion than Stephen’s, and there are defined differences for sure, he has the sneaking suspicion that (not that he will ever admit it) that Tony was right. The engineer always says that magic is just unstudied science, but if that is the case, then there are rules and limitations they must adhere to. Therefore, using that hypothesis, Wanda can be taught to control her powers the same as Stephen.

So he sits, his legs folded beneath him on the rug, texts strewed across the coffee table, and Wanda sitting across from him. Two cups of fresh tea sit on the table at each of their elbows. Stephen wears the robes he had trained in. He has decided to go full Ancient One for this.

Wanda eyes the tea suspiciously. “How is this supposed to help?”

“It’s tea,” he says.

“Magic tea?”

Stephen snorts. “No, it’s just tea.” He takes a sip. “Green tea. Hōjicha. Fresh. It’s from Kyoto, I went and got it this morning.”

She looks at him like she doesn’t trust him and Stephen’s determined to change that. He wants her trust; he wants to trust her in return. He knows the good she is capable of, that each of them are capable of. He’s not a religious man, but he is a firm believer that one can atone for their crimes and misdeeds; that one can always balance out their wrongs with a series of well-intentioned rights.

He wonders when he got so soft. All Stephen has ever wanted to do is help people; to save lives. Before the accident, however, and before the Ancient One and before Tony, he was never this Hallmark card optimistic. He’s making _himself_ sick.

He sets his tea down and reaches for the text he has left at the top of the stack. It’s a more accessible tomb that begins with the more basics of the trade. He’s only curious about her limitations for now, they can work on honing her talents later.

“I thought we would begin here,” he says, opening the ancient book to a page he had marked. The text is beautiful cuneiform and elaborately illustrated.

Wanda frowns. “You can read that?” she asks doubtfully.

Stephen smiles, wondering if she really believes that he would go through all this trouble to play a practical joke on her. “It’s an ancient Sumerian text,” he says, “copied some hundred years ago from the original tablets. It’s old, predating the Bible and the Torah, but it’s still quite good.”

“Where did you get this?”

“The library at Kamar-Taj,” he says. “It’s where I was taught. There was a school there.”

“Was?”

He swallows thickly. “It’s gone now. My teacher was killed and so were most of the others. There’s just the few of us now. Hopefully, once this mess is sorted, I can take you there for some real training."

“So you steal from the library?”

“Well, Wong doesn’t know,” he says. “But he’ll have my head when he notices. I won’t tell if you don’t.” He winks a taps his nose.

He sees her smile and try to hide it by taking a sudden sip of her tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished writing a future chapter that's, like, a disgusting amount of fluff so watch tf out for that!


	8. Steve Rogers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, what you've all been waiting for. Steve fucking Rogers, everyone.

There’s a bank robbery downtown, it’s a weeknight and Tony is in Geneva -- has been for too long. Tony left JFK a week ago tomorrow and was meant to only be gone a few days (“two days, tops. I swear!”). Stephen has managed so far without him until he receives a call from Tony in a panic at four in the morning.

Stephen rolls over in bed, reaching blindly for his phone so he could silence it. It vibrates loudly against the wood of his nightstand and the only thought in his sleep-addled mind is making the damn thing _shut up._ Seeing the screen flash with Tony’s name has Stephen sitting up with a pit of anxiety in his stomach.

“Tony?”

_“Get to Broadway and Liberty now.”_

The tone of Tony’s voice is like a lead weight being dropped in the pit of Stephen’s stomach. He’s already climbing out of bed, turning the phone on speaker, and scrambling for his pants. “What? Why? What’s happening?” He grabs for his shoes, one kicked too far beneath the bed that he has to drop to the hardwood to reach it.

_“There’s a bank robbery.”_

He pauses, one leg in his pants “We… don’t really do bank robberies, Tony.”

 _“It’s Peter!”_ he says with an urgency that makes Stephen’s heart do odd palpitations. _“He’s there and they’re armed and it’s last year all over again and I am_ going _to have a heart attack if you don’t get your ass moving right now!”_

“Alright, okay, I’m going! I’ve got it!” He pulls his shoe on and the cloak drapes over him of its own accord. He opens a portal to the Bank of America off Broadway and steps through.

There are five robbers, all armed to the teeth with next-level illegal alien tech. The two nearest the portal’s exit point jump back in surprise. Stephen wonders how threatening he could possibly look, half dressed as he is. A beefy guy with a ball cap and a ski mask shakily raises his weapon and Stephen watches it wearily as it hums and trembles in his hands.

Peter has one criminal bound in webbing and stuck to the far wall, another has his hand tacked to the glass window and a mean looking knife he must have dropped sits at his feet. Peter looks exhausted, even through the mask and suit, but he hides it well. His shoulders are back but he’s tense. His arm oozes a steady stream of blood along with something of a green hue that has an almost luminescence to it. It looks like magic, but Stephen knows it's not. Alien, then. High powered stuff if it was able to deal a sizable blow through a Stark built suit.

“Take it easy,” Stephen advises to the guy with the shaky hand. He doesn’t much fancy being shot point blank today by a guy with a shit trigger finger. “Put the weapons down, gentlemen. I’d like to avoid anyone going to the hospital tonight.”

A man with a ridiculously large gatling-gun looking contraption takes a step closer to him and Stephen throws up a shield. It startles the guy with the shaky hand and he fires a blast at the sorcerer.

Peter, even wounded, is quick, and shoots a web at the man’s weapon sending the blast off trajectory. Peter startles another robber who shoots a blast at Peter. The kid slips out of the way just as fast, clinging to the bank’s low ceiling and throwing himself across the room where he lands just behind Stephen. The blast that was meant for Peter blows through the bank wall and into the shop next door. Stephen curses under his breath and the same green substance that oozes from Peter’s wound singes the edges of the hole in the bank wall.

“You okay?” he asks the kid.

Peter nods. “Yeah.”

Stephen doesn’t quite understand the amount of relief he feels wash over him just at the sight of the kid still standing.

He tells Peter to wait outside. Taking out the bank robbers is quick work for Stephen, something that takes less than two minutes and leaves him not even so much as winded. There’s a reason he’s only ever really called in for big fish.

He portals the criminals to the police department, cuffed and bound. It’ll piss off the local PD, but he leaves a nice enough note.

Peter sits on the curb of Liberty Street, the “I Heart NY” tourist gift shop sign glowing over his head. The window of the shop is blown out, and plushy bears and t-shirts lay destroyed and burnt and blown apart. The street corner has been mostly vacated, a few civilians gathering along the sidelines and pulling out camera phones. Somewhere, a police siren can be heard.

Stephen looks down at the kid who sits dejectedly with his chin in his hands. His arm still bleeds sluggishly. “Alright?” he asks.

Peter looks up at Stephen with the large eyes of the suit. “Yeah.” He sighs. “Sorry, Doctor Strange.”

“What for?”

“I totally fu- _screwed_  up.”

Stephen sighs and runs a hand through his bed head, only succeeding in making it all the worse. “That wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have predicted that they would have alien tech.” He should have called them the moment he found out, but Stephen saves his lecture. He knows Tony will be preparing one as they speak.

He shrugs. “Yeah, but I should be able to handle a few robbers, alien guns or not! Mister Stark could’ve!”

“Maybe. But you didn’t, so why dwell on it? What’s done is done.”

“Yeah.” Peter swallows and kicks at a pebble and shrugs. “I guess.”

Stephen offers him his hand and the kid takes it, pulling himself to his feet. He wobbles a little on his feet and Stephen steadies him. “Easy.”

“Are you going to tell Mister Stark?”

Stephen laughs. “Who do you think called me?”

Peter groans and looks thoroughly dejected as Stephen opens a portal for them both to the compounds medbay. He doesn’t plan on letting Peter out of his sight, not until the kid is bandaged and back in bed.

They enter the medical wing of the compound and Stephen immediately goes for the sanitizer and gauze. Peter climbs atop the bench and removes his mask and undoes the top half of his suit.

“Next time,” Stephen tells him, not able to resist maybe a _mini_ lecture, “call Tony or me. Or, hell, _anyone_. Because, the next time I get a call like that at three in the morning from Tony in that state, somebody is going to get seriously hurt.”

Peter winced. “Yeah, sorry. I will, Doctor Strange.”

“I know you will. You’re a smart kid and you actually learn from your mistakes. Just,” he chews on the inside of his cheek, swabbing the wound on Peter’s arm, “Tony worries about you.” He takes a sample of the green substance that colored Peter’s wound before making sure all of it was cleaned away. Stephen’s hands are surprisingly steady as he cleans the wound, but he doesn’t trust himself enough to attempt stitches, so he carefully wraps it in gauze instead.

“He does?”

“All the time.” Stephen smiles as a past conversation pops into his head. He can’t help but laugh. “A month ago I had to tell Tony he wasn’t allowed to adopt you. He had it in his head that was a good idea for days.”

Peter snorts. “He did!?”

“May didn’t tell you?” He asks. “He called her and I had to call her back and tell her I’d sorted Tony out and that she should no longer expect adoption papers in her inbox.”

Peter laughs. “Is Mister Stark insane?”

“He is. He really _really_ is,” Stephen laughs. “Take some Advil and get some sleep,” he tells him. “I’m going to call Tony and let him know you’re alive.”

Peter nods. “Thanks.”

Stephen smiles and creates a portal back to Peter’s Brooklyn apartment. “Seriously, get some sleep. You have class in the morning!” Once the portal closes, Stephen pulls out his phone and starts heading for the communal kitchen. The phone rings and Stephen searches the kitchen cabinets for some tea, flipping the kettle on, while he waits for Tony to answer.

 _“Is he alive!?”_ Tony demands upon picking up. His voice is low and Stephen assumes he had to slip from a meeting to take the call.

“He’s fine, Tony,” he assures him.

 _“Oh, thank god,”_ he breathed. _“Fuck! Kid nearly gave me a stroke. What the fuck happened? FRIDAY notified me that it went south and I’ve been having an extended heart attack for the past forty-five minutes.”_

“He was hit in the arm,” He tells him. “But he’s completely fine. I patched him up as best I could, but my hands aren’t the steadiest.”

 _“Jesus, fuck -- I love you. Even with your shit hands we would be dead in a week without you,”_ Tony tells him.

Stephen feels his heart skip a beat and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. “You…” _love me?_ He doesn’t even think Tony’s aware he has said it. So he bites his tongue. “Yeah, of course.” He watched the kettle come to a boil, the sound roaring in his ears. “You’re busy, I don’t want to keep you. I’ll talk to you later, Tony.”

 _“I’ll try not to let my brain drain out of my ears while listening to these idiots with their heads shoved up their own asses,”_ he says. _“Today might be the day I have a mental break. See you later, Houdini, and thanks for grabbing Pete. I'll chew his ass out tomorrow. I **know** he's skipping PE, I'll do it then.” _

“Of course.” Stephen chuckles. 

He hangs up and leaves Stephen standing there, frowning at the pile of tea boxes that sit unassumingly on the counter. Tony had said he loves him.

Tony had said…

                  he loves him...

 

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

 

It plays like a cassette with its tape twisted all through his mind till the kettle water has run cold and he is still yet to so much as retrieved a mug.

“You okay?”

Stephen startles, knocking a box of lemon green tea off the counter. The bags go scattering across the tile floor. Stephen pays them little mind as he stares into the face of Steve Rogers at four in the morning.

“Hmm? Fine.” Stephen stands straighter and flips the kettle back on. “I’m fine.” Rogers is in joggers and his grey t-shirt is stained with sweat. His blonde hair clings to his forehead and his eyes are bright with exhaustion. “A little early for a jog isn’t it?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Rogers says.

“No, I imagine it wouldn’t come so easily to you.” Rogers frowns at the sorcerer, but Stephen hardly notices and levitates the tea back into their box. He keeps his eyes firmly on the boiling kettle just to have something other than the soldier to look at. “Did you need something?” he asks absently.

“No, I just came to get some water.”

“Well don’t let me stand in your way.”

“Do you have a problem with me, Strange?” Rogers asks accusingly.

It’s hostile to a degree that startles Stephen. He was rude to the captain, yes, but not entirely consciously. He’s riding a high caused by words that so carelessly fell from Tony’s lips nearly four-thousand miles away and it’s Rogers that’s bringing him down from it. How uncouth. Stephen can’t, however, suppress a snort upon the question, finally tearing his eyes away from the kettle. “Do I have a problem with you? What do you think, Captain?” Of course, he has a ‘problem,’ he thinks. The fact that Rogers thinks he might only have a single answer, if any, is laughable. Stephen has a file cabinet’s worth of problems with the man.

“We’ve hardly exchanged two words. You’ve been nearly as hard to get alone as Tony has been,” he says. “I’m getting a little tired of everyone acting like children on the schoolyard. We’re meant to be a team, yet here everyone is picking sides and ganging up on the others.”

Stephen sighs heavily. “I haven’t spoken to you, Rogers, because I have nothing to say to you.” Stephen tilts his head, thoughtful, and amends: “That’s not entirely true, I have quite a lot I _want_ to say, but for Tony’s sake, I’m trying not to start any fights. At least not while on base, it’ll be an HR thing. But soon enough the UN will let you leave and then, _then_ that’s when you need to watch your step. There’s nothing I have to say to you that’s kind. And while I’m _very_ smart and _very_ articulate I’m finding that the best way to communicate with you is if I bring myself down to your level, and while I’m usually quite above that, I think I can make an exception for Tony’s sake. What do you think?”

“What the hell is your problem with me?” Rogers demands.

Stephen feels his magic surge all the way to his fingertips, tickling the pads of his fingers. Like it’s hungry and it wants to lash out and Stephen has half a mind to let it. “I’m not a violent man, Rogers, please don’t make me into one.”

The man narrows his eyes and says, “Are you threatening me? I understand that you don’t like me, Strange, but if you think that you can cower me into avoiding Tony, or threaten me, then you've got another thing coming. So please, tell me, what the hell have I possibly done to you?” he asks.

“It’s not about what you’ve done to _me,_ it’s about Tony!” Stephen says. He can feel his pulse beating an irregular rhythm against his temples. “It’s always about Tony. You loved him, once, I know you did, and maybe you’ve lost that now, but I don’t think you have. Because I know Tony, and you don’t just _stop_ loving someone like him. Tony is like the sun and he’s the moon and he’s the whole damn sky. He’s the center of everything but you know you’re so damn lucky to have him that you don’t mind…” he breaks off and takes a deep breath. Stephen knows his mouth gets ahead of him when he’s angry, but the look of shock and upset on Roger’s face is something he thinks he’ll treasure for some time. “So use that head of yours, Captain, and _think._ ”

Rogers looks wounded. “I didn’t know you two were…”

“Dating?” he prompts, pouring hot water into his mug.

He nods. “I didn’t know about any of that.”

“Why should you of? Were we supposed to send out memos or little gift baskets?” He tears a packet of tea open and drops it in his mug.

Rogers shakes his head. “I just didn’t know.”

Stephen is angry, well and truly. He feels his heart hammering in his chest and he keeps one hand planted firmly on the counter to ground himself. “No, because you ran away to Africa and left Tony in a god damn tundra with a broken reactor and a fractured breastbone and a punctured lung!”

He watches Rogers swallow and takes no small amount of pleasure in watching the self-righteous captain _squirm_. “I didn’t want to hurt Tony,” he says. “Tony left me with no choice. You’ve put him on this pedestal-”

“Like the one he had put you on?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t know you, Rogers, but I know that Tony didn’t think you could do any wrong up until the moment you did!”

“I didn’t ask for that!”

“That’s not an excuse!”

Rogers had momentum in the world before everything went to hell. He was a man careless with his influence. Unaware of the size of the footsteps he left behind. 

The two of them stand nearly chest-to-chest. “You think you’re so damn smart," Rogers sneers.

“I know that I am.”

“You don’t know the half of the story, Strange.”

“And no one wants to hear your sob story about how you were trying to save your friend or you were only _following your heart,”_ Stephen laments. “We’ve heard it all before on every other god damn Disney cartoon. Get over yourself. And you know damn well that Tony never would have killed Barnes. He’s better than you like that,” he says. “Tony’s the best of us and he always has been. But you’ve had your head too far up your own ass to take notice. So save your tale of heroic deeds for someone who gives a fuck.”

“I was doing what I believed was best for the team.”

Stephen scoffs. “And you never gave a thought to who you were hurting in the process or what you left behind.” He grabs his mug and blows on the rising steam. “Sounds like a real hero to me. I’ll see you around, _Captain.”_

Stephen portals himself back to the city, but he skips over his own penthouse up town. He hates the place anyway, it’s still too sparsely decorated and no matter how high Stephen turns the thermostat it’s still too cold. Instead, he goes to Tony’s. The tower is far more lived-in; it’s warm and it smells like the candles that Pepper burns and every piece of furniture has a throw blanket or a pillow that’s picking apart at the seems. It’s not just a house, it’s a home.

Stephen offers a mumbled, “hello,” to FRIDAY and undresses before falling into Tony’s bed.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

Stephen gets the best sleep he’s had in days.


	9. I Like You Very Much, Just As You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony is back from Geneva.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the fluff I've been working on, so enjoy!
> 
> chapter title from "Bridget Jones's Diary" by Helen Fielding.

Tony arrives in New York in the early afternoon, after his nine-hour flight he is feeling simultaneously exhausted and itching to tinker in his garage. The tower is silent and he asks FRIDAY where Pepper is.

“She is in a board meeting, boss,” she tells him. “Her schedule is full until her hour lunch break at one.”

Right, of course. Pepper works far too hard for his company — _her_ company, really, if he’s being fair. He’s been far too hands-off as of late to only be giving her twelve-percent of the credit.

The lights come to life as he enters the living room and Tony sighs, feeling his shoulders relax. The penthouse is warm and smells of those candles that Pep loves so much, leaving them burning all around the penthouse. He’s convinced she keeps a stock of them somewhere in the house, probably hidden in a linen closet somewhere. Tony is glad to be back home and he wonders where Stephen is. If he’s been staying in his boring, stale place across town. He wants to tell him about Geneva, about the UN, and about his hard fought victory for the team. The paperwork is all done and filed away. His signature scrawled beautifully across far too many sheets of paper, both digital and physical.

It feels good, finally having something to show for all this shit paperwork and all the painfully dull meetings. Tony’s back is sore from bending forward to speak into a mic so a bunch of bureaucrats can hear his too many sweet words for them to realize the insults and barbs he camouflages. Finally, he has something to show for it. Something to take to Rogers and tell him to shove up his self righteous ass.

But Tony doesn’t want to think about Steve Rogers right now.

He heads to his room and his stride falls short when he finds Stephen Strange passed out beneath his sheets. The sorcerer is sound asleep, despite the sunlight that streams in freely through the expansive windows. He lies face down on the mattress, his hair mused and, Tony thinks, greyer. He wonders what has had Stephen so stressed… and exhausted apparently. Stephen never sleeps in this late. He was an old man, in the sense he was out by ten o’clock and up by seven. Their sleep schedules never aligned.

Tony smiles and lets Stephen sleep while he showers and changes his clothes. The heat of the shower eases the tension in his shoulders and melts the stress from his joints. He exits the en-suite a few minutes later in sweats and an old M.I.T. shirt. “Stephen,” he calls, throwing himself down on the mattress beside the sleeping magician. “Hey, Glinda, wake up.”

Stephen mumbles in his sleep and rolls on his side. “Tony?” There’s an imprint from the pillow across Stephen’s cheek and his face is flushed.

“The one and only,” he says with a grin. “Sleep well, twinkle toes?” he asks.

“Mmh. Nice flight?”

“Mmh,” he mocks. “Yeah, I did, no thanks to you.”

Stephen stretches his muscles. “Why didn’t you call me? I would have portaled you home.”

Tony shrugs. “I like my jet.”

Stephen snorts. “You are such a diva.”

Tony laughs. “Takes one to know one.” He brushes the hair from Stephen’s eyes and gnaws at his cheek.

“How did the meetings go?” Stephen asks.

Tony grins. “Would you believe me if I said I very maturely came to a compromise with the United Nations?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, that is the official narrative.”

Stephen’s eyes widen and he smiles. “You’re done?” he asks. “They agreed?”

Tony shrugs. “They caved. Even the UN isn’t immune to my charms.”

“To your annoying persistence, more like. Bet they couldn’t wait to get rid of you.”

Tony’s grin grows even wider and Stephen props himself on his elbow and kisses it right off of him. Tony hums and rests his forehead against the wizard’s.

“Congratulations, Mister Stark.”

“Thank you, Doctor Strange.”

Stephen smiles and ducks his head. “Missed you.”

Tony scoffs. “Did you?” He’s not used to this, this emotional clingy type of relationship. He doesn’t mind — actually, he thinks he might love it, it’s just taking a learning curve. “I don’t see why.”

Stephen laughs and rolls over on his back. “You complete robot.”

Tony gasps when he’s grabbed around the middle and dragged practically on top of the magician. It startles a laugh out of him and he presses his face into the curve of the other man’s neck. “Romantic wizard!”

“I’m not a wizard!” Stephen insists and flips the two of them until Tony finds himself pinned beneath him.

“Yes, you are!” Tony laughs and pulls Stephen in for another kiss. He runs his fingers through Stephen’s hair, twisting a piece of white hair between his fingers. “Why have you been so stressed?” he asks. He runs his thumb across the dark smudges that underline his blue, blue eyes. “And tired.”

Stephen shrugs. “Working too hard. I’ve been bouncing between the compound and Kamar-Taj.”

“For what?”

“I’ve been spending a lot of time in the library. I’m driving Wong to a mental break, I’m sure. Mostly for my own purposes, but I’ve been helping Wanda.”

“Really?”

Stephen shrugs.

Tony feels a swell of pride towards the sorcerer in his chest. Even knowing Wanda’s past, Stephen is willing to help her, to force her down the path of redemption — even if it’s kicking and screaming. Stephen is a finer man than he deserves. He embodies a humanity and kindness that outshines any that Tony has met before. They have all done terrible things, been terrible people in lives past. Yet here was this prepossessing man that desired him. Tony thinks Stephen is the twine and thread that keeps him stitched together, without him he would simply gape apart and dissipate into the ethereal.

“You would help her?” Tony asks. “Knowing what she’s done and knowing her reasons?”

Again, Stephen shrugs. “Of course I would. Everyone deserves to be given another chance,” he says. “I was.”

“That’s different,” Tony says instinctually.

“How so?”

Tony shakes his head, adamant that Stephen isn’t to be grouped into the same lot of fuckups as he and the others. “It just is.”

“Do you care?” Stephen asks. “Does it bother you at all? That I’m helping her. I…” he shakes his head. “I don’t know, I don’t want you to think I’m going behind your back or something.”

Tony scoffs. “We’re not teenagers. There aren’t ‘sides’ or anything. If you think there’s something in Wanda worth salvaging, then I believe you.” It's not like Tony hates Wanda, he just doesn’t trust her. She is a wild card; she’s unpredictable. Her motives change like the wind and her history is as murky as Romanoff’s. To be fair, he doesn’t know much about her, personally. Tony agrees with Stephen though, inside each of them is something good. They are Avengers, at the end of the day, are they not? Each willing to risk life and limb to save someone else’s life and protect the innocent. Even if some of them, like Steve, disagree with Tony and have different ways of going about it, they are all still fighting the good fight. They’re on the same side here, Tony was tired of everyone not acting like it. It’s time they become a team again. “If we started booting everyone because of their pasts, because of the who we’ve hurt, then that’s a third of the team gone right there, isn’t it?” Tony scoffs. “Who’s that leave? You, Hope, Vision, Sam, and the kids?” He shrugs. “And T’Challa if you can get a hold of him in his hermit country.” Tony knows he would be the first to go, because, really? Who’s bad decisions and carelessness have had the widest impact other than the Merchant of Death?

“She’s not exactly the easiest to work with,” Stephen says. “She’s _very_ bossy and very resistant. I don’t think she likes me much. Wanda’s my first student,” he tells Tony thoughtfully. “It’s actually kind of exciting. Wong didn’t think I’d ever have any, can you believe him? Ha! As if I wouldn’t make a great teacher.”

Tony snorts. “I trust your judgment with her. You’re smart and a good judge of character,” he tells him. “If anyone can sort Wanda out it would be you.”

Stephen absolutely preens under the compliment. He kisses Tony on his forehead and the mechanic grins.

“What are you doing today?” Tony asks.

“I haven’t any plans,” he says. “I didn’t know if you’d be here or not, so I haven’t gotten any further than coffee.”

“Coffee sounds good. I can do coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.”

Stephen chuckles and the sound is the greatest that Tony’s ever heard. It’s beautiful. Everything about him is beautiful.

_I love you._

It’s been playing through his mind the past two days, distractingly loud inside of the chambers of his mind. He doesn’t think Stephen had even caught it, or assigned any significance to it if he had. Tony hadn’t even meant to say it, that doesn't make it any less genuine. Tony can feel the confession now, like a scream perched just beneath his chin. It claws at his throat, fighting desperately for air and attention. It needs light and it needs care and it needs desperately for Stephen to hear it.

He hates that he’s grown so soft. He blames Stephen entirely for his downfall. He always thought that it would be more epic, you know? Blaze of glory and explosions and all that heroic shit. His image adhered in stone like a modern day Achilles. He always thought he would pull an accidental Icarus. Tony would’ve much preferred a tragedy over a romance, once upon a time. Primarily because he had thought it his only choice. Yet here he goes nonetheless.

“You okay?” Stephen asks.

“Hmm? What? Of course I’m okay. I’m the king of okay!” Tony swings himself off the bed. “I’m going to make coffee, take a shower!”

Tony thinks he might be acting weird, but he’s not a good judge of his own actions. Also, he kind of feels like he’s having an out of body experience as he puts fresh coffee grounds in the maker and it begins to brew. He’s tired, of course, but his body feels unnaturally heavy. Is he dying? He doesn’t think so. The reactor doesn’t hurt or ache or feel like really anything at all actually. Still, he feels like his consciousness is unbound by his flesh and attempting to drift away.

“FRIDAY, run scans,” he clears his throat. “On uh, everything.”

“Are you feeling alright, boss?” she asks.

“Peachy keen, just do it.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Anything,” he says. “Everything.” It’s funny, he knows she won’t find anything. He’s entirely physically healthy, he knows this. And still, he just feels… off. The results come back as expected as he listens to FRIDAY as she explains that he’s one-hundred-percent fine. Fine. He knew that. Totally. For sure.

Because Tony Stark is _not_ freaking out. Tony Stark doesn’t have panic attacks about _being in love!_ Because he is a big boy and a totally rational adult, he decides to make a pros and cons list.

  

 

> _Pros of being in love with Stephen Totally Super Hot Strange:_
> 
>   1. _He’s super hot_
>   2. _He actually likes Tony!_
>   3. _He’s kind_
>   4. _He makes for exciting conversations_
>   5. _Tony likes him!_
>   6. _He makes Tony’s heart skip and leaves him vulnerable and unsure_
> 

> 
>  
> 
> _Cons of being in love with Stephen Out of Tony’s League Strange:_
> 
>   1. _He makes Tony’s heart skip and leaves him vulnerable and unsure_
> 


  

Fuck! That’s useless! Scrap the list -- lists are dumb anyway, that’s much more of a Bruce tactic anyhow.

Tony groans and slumps against the kitchen counter. This is going to be more difficult than he had thought. That’s fine though, Tony can work with difficult. _King of Okay._ Fuck that, Tony is the King of Fixing Things. He’s the Mechanic. He’s a craftsman. He can work this out, he can handle this. They’re just feelings, not an incoming nuclear missile. Tony has got this! Tony is not freaking out. Holly shit Tony is totally freaking out!

“Son of a-” He sets both hands on the counter and feels his heart beating against the reactor casing. Not literally, of course (he doesn’t think), that’s not actually possible. But gods save him he’s about to have a heart attack.

In the time and space between Steve Rogers and Stephen Strange, Tony hated himself. He hated what he had become and he hated what he had driven Steve to become. Because, really, at the end of the day, of course, Tony blames himself for it all. He’s the man with the world's biggest self-sacrificing guilt complex there ever was! It’s not the most glamorous title, but it’s his nonetheless.

Stephen makes him better, Stephen makes him strong. Tony wants Stephen to stay.

Tony supposes this all boils down to his fear of abandonment that his therapist not so delicately assured him he possesses. That and the anxiety are a nasty combination. He has stopped taking his medication, which was why he has been indulging in the occasional alcoholic beverage, and it has been fine. _He_ has been fine. He is beginning to wonder if he has miscalculated. He still has half a bottle, he only hopes it’s not yet expired.

Tony runs both hands through his hair and makes the damp locks stand up every which way. He looks like a right lunatic, he knows, but that can hardly be helped.

“Tony?”

He startles and sees Stephen standing there towel drying his hair. It really is more grey than Tony remembers. He’s wearing sweatpants that hang loosely on his hips and a threadbare t-shirt that’s only a little too big as well. Tony can’t help but smile, the man is always dressed in things that are too large for his slight frame. Tony’s particularly fond of his hoodies and sweatshirts that are a size too big; likes the sight of the sorcerer drowning in fabric and with a childlike contentment on his face.

“Uh, hi,” Tony says eloquently.

Stephen’s smile fades and Tony wants to reach out and fix it. “Are you okay?”

“King of Okay,” Tony echoes lamely.

“Tony.” His tone is so featherlight that it positively aches inside of Tony’s chest. He approaches Tony and his hand caresses his arm. “I’m serious. What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s fine.”

“What’s fine?”

“Us?”

Stephen looks surprised. “Of course we’re fine.” He looks like he has more to add but bites his tongue.

“What?” Tony prompts. “What else were you going to say?”

Stephen shakes his head minutely.

Tony’s not buying it and there’s a fondness and a tenderness behind his eyes that has Tony hurdling right over his _abandonment issues_ and taking the leap. _Fuck it._ “I think I’m in love with you,” Tony says. The confession leaves Tony feeling lighter like he can finally breathe.

Tony had thought he’s seen Stephen surprised, well and truly caught off guard -- _boy,_ was he mistaken. The magician stammers. “You…”

“I love you,” Tony says again with more confidence.

“Oh, thank god.” Stephen takes Tony’s face in his hands and kisses him harder than Tony’s ever been kissed in his life. It’s amazing and Tony wants to crawl inside of him and stay there forever, making a home for himself.

“So… do you…?”

“Yes, Tony, _C_ _hrist._ I love you.”

“Oh, well, that’s good. I mean I was a little worried, but I am very charming. So, you know, I thought you mmh-”

Stephen kisses him again, effectively silencing the babbling mechanic.

“You know I’m really glad we got that out of the way,” Tony begins to babble the moment Stephen pulls back for air. “It’s-

“Tony.”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“Only when I’m dead, sweetheart.”

Stephen’s head ducks as he laughs and it makes Tony grin. _I love you._ There it was, out in the world now. Existing. Breathing. Something tender and small but swelling and emboldening with every passing second that it is allowed to _be._ It’s making Tony’s head spin.

“I made coffee,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the calm before the storm. So, brace yourselves.
> 
> Thank you guys for reading, you're all lovely!


	10. Fraudulently Flirtatious, Cowardly and Dysfunctional

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, again (surprise!) the chapter title is also from "Bridget Jones's Diary." Can you tell what one of my favorite movies/books are?? Yikes.

The Accords are repealed and new contracts take their place. Steve Rogers and the others are officially free to go. Tony’s somewhat ecstatic over the prospect of them (of Steve) leaving. He only needs to tell them about it.

Tony’s trying to be professional about all of this; he’s trying to be respectful. This means following Pepper’s advice (read: _demand)_ on taking the high road. Tony hates the high road. Tony likes to point and laugh at his enemy and shove their nose in it. He’s immature like that, Pepper (and Bruce, and Stephen, and Rhodey, and Happy, and Jarvis) has told him so.

He doesn’t think he can be faulted. It’s a habit born of having enemies like _Justin Hammer_ and other such scumbags.

Tony begins the painful process with a text to Steve. He asks for him to rally his troops in the compound’s main conference room. He only tells him that he has news on the state of the agreement with the United Nations and an update on the Accords, preferring to keep things vague. He gets a cheerful reply text from Rogers that has Tony rolling his eyes.

He’s reluctant to get out of bed that morning; reluctant to leave the Tower. He wakes that morning with his muscles pleasantly sore and with a pleasurable ache, leaving his mind with a euphoric sharpness and a heightened sense of _being_. Tony has never been a religious man. Last night, however, Tony swears he experienced something divine, something that could bring Tony to his knees quoting scripture and seeking absolution for his transgressions. All at the hands of one master magician.

Their feet stick out from beneath the end of the comforter where it has bunched up in the night. Stephen’s legs, being significantly longer than Tony’s, are exposed from the mid-calf down and Tony curiously observes the sorcerer’s feet. They are thin and pale with long slender toes. His leg hair is surprisingly light in comparison with that on top of his head. Tony has never had much interest in something so mundane as his previous lover’s feet. To Tony, however, this is all very new and he finds he wants to know every inch of Stephen’s body, even the shape and shade of his feet.

Tony could marvel at this man all day. He's still in shock, most days, that he finds any interest in Tony at all - that he loves Tony! He loves him like he's something precious and new. 

The magician is currently using Tony’s chest as his pillow, face smooth against Tony’s chest, rounded nose just brushing the metal edge of the reactor casing. He has his arm spread across Tony’s chest and his fingers limply grip Tony’s grey t-shirt.

Tony shifts his leg that is trapped between both of Stephen’s, adjusting against the weight of the other man. He carefully shimmies himself out of Stephen’s embrace and the man huffs lightly in his sleep. He rolls over in his sleep and grasps Tony’s pillow to his chest as a Tony substitute. The billionaire snorts.

Tony showers and dresses in his sharpest suit. Armor. He’s going into battle. He doesn’t feel as defensive around Rogers as he had a few weeks ago, but it does still feel so like entering a battlefield.

“Are you alright?” Stephen asks him, padding in in only his briefs, as he frowns at the three neck ties he has lying out.

Tony chooses the maroon one and quickly wraps it around his throat. “Just perfect. It’s all sunshine and rainbows over here.” He frowns at his reflection in the full body mirror. He watches as Stephen approaches from behind him and wraps his arm around Tony’s middle. The taller man plants a kiss on Tony’s cheek before setting his chin on his shoulder.

His eyes are still clouded with sleep and his greying hair a mused mess, sticking up in odd angles and plastered to his forehead. Tony wonders just how much their late night activities have worn the sorcerer out. Quite a bit, it would seem. “I love you,” Stephen says and Tony’s stomach flutters.

He grins. “I love you. You and you’re very strong morning breath.”

Stephen hums and looks utterly content. “Can you not postpone this?” Stephen asks.

“I’d rather get it over and done with,” Tony tells him.

Stephen hums.

“Reap the benefits of my hard fought victory.”

The magician grunts.

“You’re very communicative this morning,” Tony tells him. “You know, I know we’re both getting on in years, but really. I don’t think I’ve seen you _this_ out of it after sex. Especially, what, five hours after? Good to know I’m still that good.”

Stephen snorts. “You wish. If I remember correct, and my memory is eidetic, I was the one doing most of the physical aspects of our _activities.”_ Tony can feel his lips brush the shell of his ear. “You just laid there and took it.”

Tony’s collar feels hot. “Oh, I’ll show you just how well I can _take it,_ Doctor Strange.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Mister Stark.”

Tony watches Stephen through his lashes in the mirror. “Later,” he promises. “I have business to attend to.”

Stephen hums. “How unfortunate.”

Tony shoves him. “Go get dressed, Glinda.”

“I’m not a witch!”

“Yes, you are!”

 

* * *

 

Tony runs into Rogers first upon arriving at the compound. Stephen promised to follow later, taking his slow, sweet time with getting ready in this morning. Tony is sifting through papers in his office, finding the contracts that he would need the others to sign on behest with the United Nations. He finds the paper in the second drawer of his desk, he was never very organized when it came to actual paper, when there’s a knock at his door. Tony sees Steve Rogers standing there with his arms folded and nonchalantly leaning his weight against the doorframe.

“Can I help you, Captain?”

“Just wanted to say hi,” he says.

“Hello,” Tony chimes. “There, mission accomplished. Anything else?”

Rogers rolls his eyes. “So this meeting,” he prompts, “can I ask now, or do I have to wait?”

“Patience is a virtue,” Tony tells him. “Not one I possess, but I’ve been assured it’s very admirable. The ladies like it, but I haven’t paid much mind to the dames for a few years now, so my intel may be a tad out of date. I can ask Pep, for you, but she might lie. You’re kinda on her shit list right now. You are the shit list. So what it really comes around to is yes. Yes, you have to wait,” he says. Rogers sighs and looks at Tony with a look that Tony is unable to decipher. It’s familiar and _fond,_ and Tony feels himself grow tense as he suddenly discerns  _exactly_ what's happening. “What?” he asks sharply.

Rogers shakes his head. “Missed listening to you go on like that.”

Tony snorts. “Don’t see how come. Especially when it was just a long winded insult, and I’ve been guaranteed it’s my least enviable trait.”

Rogers chuckles, moving further into Tony’s office till he’s standing only the length of Tony’s desk away. His lashes flutter. “No, it’s endearing really.”

“What are you doing?” Tony asks accusingly.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” he says. “Don’t play dumb and don’t treat me like I’m dumb. You can’t manipulate me, it doesn’t work.” Tony knows precisely what he’s playing at. Tony takes several steps closer, his arms crossed. He has to look up to keep eye contact. “You don’t have any power over me, Steve.”

Steve’s brow creases. “When did I ever?”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about,” Tony says coldly. Tony’s nerves feel like they're on fire, an electricity lighting up the space between and around them.

“Please,” he says, “enlighten me.”

Tony sighs. “Look, Steve, I’m not actively trying to dislike you, but I will never love you.” In fact, Tony is finally happy. “So, if you want anything amicable to happen here, it’s not now. You’ve been back for under a month and you’ve been trying to get me alone non stop. Has it ever occurred to you that I’m not ready for that? That this right here, us being alone, is _really_ not good for me?”

“Tony, I didn’t mean-”

“I don’t need whatever bullshit you’re about to give me. The facts of it are that you _didn’t_ think.” He never gave Tony’s situation a second’s thought and that’s just how it is. “You’re selfish. You’ve always been _so selfish,”_ he says emphatically. “Nobody says anything because you parade it around in your stars and stripes as having everyone’s best interests in mind, but you don’t. The world’s interests and yours just happened to align, up until they didn't. And then you took on anyone who opposed you with your fists and your anger and you justified it by claiming to be saving your best friend. It’s manipulative and it’s deceitful and this is all incredibly _rich_ coming from me, trust me I know!

“Point is, if you don’t get your head out of your ass, you’re going to wind up right back where you did the last time: alone. And you’re going to find that everyone has moved on without you. Because they’re just _so tired_ of it.” Hit them where it hurts and all of that, Tony thinks. Tony supposes that’s the only good thing about their past, love exposes your Achilles heel. Steve did plenty of exposing his vulnerabilities to Tony back in the day, and Tony doesn’t forget.

Tony’s own fear of leading his loved ones to their deaths doesn’t need to be mentioned here. This is about Steve. Rogers looks winded as if Tony has physically struck him, only Tony isn’t that cruel. Pain is nothing more than synapses firing in the brain, he’ll be fine. Tony isn’t the starter of the pain between them, but he’s willing to deal the final blow.

 

* * *

 

 They’re all seated when Tony arrives in the conference room half an hour later; Steve, Natasha, Clint, Sam, and Wanda. They’re speaking amicably amongst themselves but most conversation dies once Tony enters the room, Stephen trailing behind him. Tony catches Rogers sending a glare towards Stephen and silently reminds himself to tell Steve off about _that_ bullshit later. He swears, Rogers is going to drive him to an early grave. Possibly today.

“Good afternoon, and thank you all for coming,” Tony says brightly.

“Shut up, Tony,” Clint says. “What you want from us? You’re interrupting my sleep.”

“It’s twelve o’clock on a Saturday,” Tony says. “Not that weekdays are particularly important when you can’t leave this compound.” he shakes his head. “Not important. On the subject, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“You said it was about the Accords?” Steve prompts. He looks tense and still upset from their conversation.

“Yes,” Tony says, taking his seat. “They’ve been repealed.”

“What?” Clint squawks.

“Repealed. Gone. Entirely null.” Tony says with a careless wave of his hand. His spine remains rigid in his seat.

“When did this happen?” Steve asks, his brow furrowing in the smallest sign of distrust.

“Two days ago,” he tells them.  
“And it took you this long to tell us?” Natasha asks sharply.

“Yes,” Tony says without blinking, “it did, Romanoff. Problem?”

She rolls her eyes and she and Clint share a look.

“Seems like something worth announcing,” Wilson scoffs.

“Tony, _how?”_ Rogers asks pressingly. “The UN didn’t sound like this was something they were going to move on.”

“How?” Tony parrots. “Because I’m that good, Rogers. Don’t ask stupid questions.” He sees Stephen smirk beside him and the sorcerer ducks his head. “I’ve been in talks with the UN for months, you caught me on the tail end of things. Don’t worry about the details, just know that it’s taken care of. You’re all free to go,” Tony tells them.

“Go?” Wanda asks. “Go where?”

“Wherever you’d like within US soil. If you stay out of trouble for the next three-hundred-sixty-five days, the US restriction will be lifted for you five. You’re not fugitives anymore, but full-fledged Avengers once again. Now, whether you’ll be called if there _is_ an emergency is to be determined, but you’re welcome to come and go.”

“What’s the catch?” Steve asks wearily.

Tony shrugs. “Same as it’s ever been. We’re not to act without UN consent, but it’s been tweaked enough that we’re being trusted to make some of our own calls. It’s all very grey by design. _My_ design. I made some friends on the board, so a number of them have my back if I ask. If things are to go south, however, we all deal with the consequences. I’m paying for damages out of pocket here,” he continues, “so be careful, please.

“I’ve made several compromises. It’s making us all very buddy-buddy with the government. If something happens we’re all on trial, understood? I don’t like it, but I’m doing what I can to cover our asses -- _all_ of our asses.” He makes sure to make eye contact with each of them. “It’s not cute, but it is what it is,” he says. “It’s the best that could be done. Cap and Wanda are on the thinnest ice, as far as the United Nations are concerned. And, by extension, all ‘enhanced individuals.’ Sorry, Stephen, that’s you too.”

“I haven’t even done anything,” the sorcerer mutters, his gloved hands raising in indignation.

The corner of Tony’s mouth twitches, but he carries on. “They have a critical eye on Vision, Bruce, and Carol as well. But, again, they’ll be especially harsh on you two,” he nods at Wanda and Rogers and watches the witch tense in her seat. “So, please, best behavior?” It feels almost hypocritical, coming from him. Yet, here they are all the same. It’s unfair that he should end up on this side of things, being the responsible one. Part of him longs for fifteen years ago when he hadn’t a care in the universe other than which model was attending who’s party. Ah, the good old days.

“What the hell does any of that mean?” Wilson asks.

“So we’re free to step in?” Rogers asks.

“If it’s major,” Tony clarifies. “As in an alien invasion, or something more situational.”

“Situational?”

  
“If you’re out to cash a check and some scumbag bursts in with a laser cannon, knock yourself out,” Tony says plainly. “Otherwise, we’re to wait to be invited or we’re to ask.”

“So what’s changed?” Wilson scoffs.

Tony scowls. “A lot, if you have ears,” he says. “Have you been paying attention? Look, the world isn’t going to roll over overnight and give into your whims, alright? The current global climate isn’t going to let us go on unchecked.”

“We’re the good guys!” Rogers states, rising to his feet.

Tony stands on instinct, his heart hammering as Rogers’ raises his voice and his stance. He towers over Tony, even with the table that separates them. He notices Stephen rising as well, Romanoff also stands, throwing herself into the bargain. Steve’s _fucking_ guard dog, Tony thinks bitterly.

“We can’t be expected to wait around for approval when people’s lives are at risk,” Rogers argues.

“I agree!” Wanda declares, standing as well.

“We can’t do whatever we want either!” Tony sneers. “That’s how people die!” That’s how the lives of innocents fall at Tony’s feet. He can’t keep letting the bodies pile up. He doesn’t think he can live with that.

“People die when we aren’t allowed to help them!” Steve says.

“Who are we helping when he set a city on fire!? Huh? When there’s a repeat of Sokovia?” He asks. “People get hurt when people like us are allowed to run around unchecked! You think you’re a hero but you’re a goddamn idiot with a savior complex and zero self-awareness!” They’re both yelling, and Tony feels a fire of rage set ablaze in the pit of his stomach that he doesn’t know how to control any longer. His teeth grind together with enough force to make his jaw pop, the muscles protesting. He wants to sink his teeth into something, feels the need inside of him like he needs air.

“So we just don’t help people then?”

“Not when we can’t control the outcome,” Tony says. _“That’s_ how people die! Do you _ever_ stop to think of the consequences of our actions? You are _so_ self-absorbed it’s incredible-!”

“We can’t leave innocent lives to the judgment of a government that doesn’t have their best interest at heart,” Steve argues. “When did you become their lapdog-!?”

“I am _not_ their fucking lapdog! And I am _not_ having this argument with you again, Steve!” This is the same argument from two years ago, the two of them destined to go around and around for eternity it would seem.

“You’ve sold this team out once already, I don’t know _why_ I’m surprised you’ve done it again.”

“Fuck you! I’ve given my life to this team and I’ve spent the last two years cleaning up after _your_ mess! You selfish piece of shit! Fuck you, Rogers!”

Tony doesn’t see Wilson rise to his feet, nor does he see Natasha reach out to restrain Steve, latching onto the super soldier’s arm in a gesture that would have been too late. He hardly registers Rogers’ fist as he raises it, preparing to strike his intended target: Tony. What Tony does see, however, plays out in his mind in a state of slowed motion. He sees Stephen. Stephen moving with a supernatural speed as he raises his own hands, forming a glinting spear out of the air and space around them. He sees the shimmering gold of the mystic weapon as it soars across the room. Tony feels the breeze of it as it moves through the air only inches from his cheek; can feel it as the wind moves his hair.

Time seems to catch up to itself far too quickly and in the span of time it takes for Tony to blink, Rogers is violently thrown across the conference room. Tony watches the spear that Stephen conjured as it pierces the super soldier’s shoulder, pinning him to the wall opposite them. Tony’s flinch is delayed, but he’s suddenly shying into himself, his knees locking. He lowers himself to the floor inelegantly, hands shaking too hard for him to get a decent grip on the conference table. There’s shouting, probably Natasha and Sam, he thinks. Wanda screams and there’s a spark of her scarlet magic that illuminates the room before the familiar orange glow of Stephen’s own magic sparks and fades and suddenly Wanda is gone.

Tony can hear his blood roaring in his ears, cacophonous and ear-splitting. His pulse is pounding behind his eyes. The sounds around him are muted. He feels someone gripping his shoulder, a second hand on the back of his neck, but he can’t take his eyes off of Steve Rogers. The man is stuck to the wall like the weapon is nothing more than an oversized thumbtack. His hands grapple at the spear that pierces muscle and sinew. It won’t scar but heal cleanly by the end of the day. It bleeds sluggishly, soaking the blues and whites of his button-up. His expression is crunched in pain. Tony wants to tell Natasha to move as she comes to block his view, her back to him, but he can’t find his voice.

The hands that touch him shake him gently before physically turning his head, forcefully averting Tony’s eyes from Steve.

It’s Clint, practically holding Tony to his chest. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so physically close to Clint before. Never had Clint so intimately run his fingers through Tony’s hair, grounding the engineer to the present. He hears sounds breaking through the roaring in his ears.

“Breathe, Tony. C’mon, man, just breathe.”

Tony is trying, but it feels like someone’s sent a spear through _his_ chest. His heart is beating against the reactor, pushing the technology clear out of his chest. He’s short of breath, his heart working overtime. _Shock?_ Possibly -- probably.

“Tony, c'mon, breathe. I’ve got you, you’re good, I promise.”

Tony reaches up and grips Clint’s forearm, trying to have something to cling to. His hands are trembling. All of him is trembling with enough force to hurt.

“Come on,” Clint says, pulling Tony to his feet. He takes all of Tony’s weight on himself and steers Tony from the room. Tony’s body is useless to them, limp and unresponsive; catatonic. Clint deposits him someplace with a sofa and crouches down in front of him. There’s a blanket draped over him and he fingers it numbly, the texture soft against his calloused fingers.

Tony blinks at him sluggishly. He feels like he’s ebbing and flowing, unrestrained to a physical time and place.

“Tony?”

“Hmm.”

“Are you with me, buddy?” he asks.

Tony swallows and blinks several times, willing the archer’s face to swim into focus and _stay_ there. When he begins to stop seeing three of him, he releases a heavy and trembling breath. “Fucking hell.”

“Yeah, you about summed it up.”

After a few more blinks he manages to keep Barton into focus and sees that the other man is sitting on his haunches in front of Tony on the floor of Tony’s own office. He swallows thickly, his mouth feeling like cotton. His breathing is still off, too rapid and shallow. He buries his face in his hands and groans. “What the fuck was that?” he asks.

Clint shakes his head, raking his hands through his hair. “I don’t know,” he says solemnly and Tony can hear the pain in his own voice.

Tony moves his leg till his foot brushes the archer’s calf. He just wants the physical contact it brings. He thinks it benefits the both of them. Tony’s in full panic mode, but Clint is clearly not unaffected either. Tony doesn’t think he’s ever seen Clint worked up like this before, it makes him uneasy. There the two of them are the two most nonchalant members of the group, shaking apart privately together.

Clint reaches up and pats Tony on the leg and Tony thinks it’s more to comfort himself than Tony. “Steve’s been… _different_ for a while now,” he says after a few minutes of silence. “He’s angry a lot, but he’s never been aggressive. Not that I’ve seen. But,” he sighs and it comes out unsteady, “I don’t know. I’m not going back in there, that’s for sure. I’m not, I can’t stand by that. I’m not…” He shuffles on the floor till his back rests against the sofa in which Tony sits upon, his shoulder against Tony’s thigh.

Tony doesn't comment. He doesn’t think he has anything to say, until- “Where’s Stephen?” he hears himself ask. The sorcerer’s absence is only now registering with Tony’s anxiety muddled mind.

Clint snorts. “Probably beating the living hell out of Rogers.”

Tony notes how ‘Steve’ shifts into ‘Rogers _._ ’

Tony’s rarely seen Stephen upset, rarely witnessed an ounce of true rage in Stephen’s blue blue eyes. Not until now. It’s terrifying, but he doesn’t fear Stephen. The situation sets every last one of Tony’s nerves ablaze.

Tony realizes that he is scared of Steve Rogers. Tony’s only ever felt this once before, in the moments of Rogers pounding his shield into Tony’s chest. Tony had been consumed with so much grief for his mother and anger towards Steve that his _true_ fear was the last emotion to register. He wasn't scared of the pain that Rogers was capable of inflicting upon _him._  Pain is familiar, nothing more than firing synapses. He can handle pain. This, _this_ ins't that. This is raw fear of the unknown (wormholes, aliens, Steve Rogers and the damage he could inflict on the world) and Tony doesn't know how to handle it right now. His hands itch and tremble with the need to touch and tinker and busy himself. For a distraction. He needs something solid to focus his mind on. He needs something to touch. “Where’s Stephen?” he asks again. 

Clint frowns. “Do you want me to go find him?”

Tony shakes his head. “No… no, he’s…” Tony doesn’t know where he was going with that. His mind replays the events that just transpired over in his mind like a shitty home video reel, tainted and splotched with bitter fear and rage. “He’s fine.”

Did Tony do this to him? Was that his curse, bringing out the worst in everyone around him? He drove Obie to murder, he led Rhodey to his paralysis, he brought Yinsen to his death. Was Tony the common factor? Did he destroy Steve like he destroyed everyone else? Was he leading Stephen to his doom as well? Tony is being cruel by keeping Stephen, he thinks. This is his fault. It’s always his fault. He doesn’t know why the realization hurts so harshly. He should be used to this, this pain should be known as an old friend. He is accustomed to bearing the brunt of the blame. So why does this hurt so bad?

“Tony? Are you okay?” Clint asks.

Tony wets his lips. “I’m fine. I’m just… it’s fine.”

“What are you thinking?”

He shakes his head. “I did this.”

Clint balks and turns to properly face the billionaire. “What do you mean?” he asks. “Tony, what the fuck do you mean?”

“Did I break Steve?” he chokes. “Please, Clint, tell me this wasn’t me.”

“No, Tony. No, this has nothing to do with you,” he tells him. “None of this is your fault, so fucking stop with that line of thinking before I kick your ass. I’m serious, Tones. This isn’t on you and you had nothing to do with this. Sorry to break it to you, but not everything revolves around you.”

Tony snorts. “Right.” This doesn’t mean he believes him.

 

* * *

 

Stephen can feel his hands trembling violently at his sides and he bunches them into fists. He paces, watching Romanoff and Wilson at Rogers’ side. Wilson flutters beside the soldier uselessly and Romanoff simply crouches beside him, keeping a hand on his shoulder just below the entry wound. She says something to him in Russian.

Rogers’ expression is screwed up in pain and he grunts and clenches his jaw tightly, clutching uselessly at the weapon that pierces his skin and muscle and sinew. It’s hit nothing vital, nothing that won’t heal in a matter of hours, he knows. It’s a flesh wound. Still, it bleeds sluggishly but steadily, soaking through his shirt and staining the cotton.

Stephen feels no regret, no sympathy for the man that had raised his fist in aggression. He had intended harm. Stephen does not regret his actions. He is, however, incredibly enraged. He doesn’t know how to handle it, what to channel it towards. His fingers itch to hit and claw and _inflict._ Stephen is unaccustomed to rage. Anger, yes. He had experienced his share of pure anger at the results of his accident, at his inability to tap into the magic within him at the start of his training. This, _this_ is different. This is new. This is pure rage on another’s behalf -- Tony’s behalf. _His_ Tony. Remarkable, saccharine Tony. A man that could make angels damn themselves and devils seek divinity.

He thinks the Ancient One would know what to do with him; she would know how to deconstruct and discourage his rage. He feels her absence now sharply.

Stephen has never taken a life. He defeated Kaecilius and his followers, but that was different. This was different. Stephen wants to fight Steve Rogers with his bare hands and teeth. He feels he could destroy Rogers with the very hands that had saved so many. He thinks he might revel in it.

But that’s all an absent thought in the back of his mind that gets pushed aside quickly. More pressingly is the fear. _He has never taken a life._ He has never fought so aggressively with weapon to flesh. It scares him, this rage. It’s new and it’s frightening and he never knew that his hands were capable of this aggression.

Still, when he looks at Rogers and thinks of Tony and he cannot summon regret.

He clenches his fists and approaches the downed soldier.

Wilson and Romanoff watch him as he nears, Wilson moving to put a hand on his chest and keep him away. Stephen doesn’t pay their wishes any heed. With a wave of his hands, Stephen flings he and Rogers into the mirror dimension. From the corners of his eyes, he can see Wilson stumble back in shock and anger, can see the frustrated downturn of Romanoff’s lips and the ways she swipes Rogers’ blood from her hands onto her pants. She curses something in Russian. They’re arguing, but they are muted as if underwater.

Rogers gasps as the shift jostles his shoulder. There’s a small ounce of genuine fear in the soldier’s eyes and Stephen savors it. He grips the end of the spear in hand and Rogers releases a shaky exhale.

Stephen leans in, looming intimidatingly over the other man. “Listen carefully, Rogers. If I see you _ever_ raise a finger towards Tony again, or if I ever hear a word of it, I will not be so easy on you. I told you I was not a violent man, and that you ought not to make me into one.” He grips the spear and rips if from Rogers’ muscle and sinew, the gold tip stained black with blood.

The soldier releases a startled shout and grips the wound to cover the steady bleeding.

Stephen flips the spear so that it’s point hovers just inches from Rogers’ nose. The light that pours in from the midday sun bounces and reflects against the oblong shards of the mirror dimension, illuminating the gold of the mystic weapon. He watches Rogers’ adam's apple bob. “That wasn’t an idle threat.” He flips the spear around and allows it to dissipate into the air and the atoms around them.

When they exit the mirror dimension they startle both Wilson and Romanoff, violently materializing into their world. Wilson curses and moves to grab Rogers immediately. Natasha sends Stephen a harsh glare but seems to realize that she would be outmatched by both his anger and his magic. Instead, she brushes a strand of stray amber hair behind her ear and says to him, “go find Stark,” before turning back to Rogers where Wilson has helped the soldier to his feet.

Stephen is surprised by her demand, and once again feels no small amount of confusion towards her motives and the processes of her inner mind. He thinks she will always remain a mystery to him and that’s fine.

Stephen watches as the two of them lead Rogers from the conference room, likely heading for the medbay.

Alone in the room, Stephen releases a heavy and uneven breath that shudders out of him. He’s suddenly aware of his heart pounding violently in his chest. The trembling of his hands is more aggressive than usual and he’s hopeless to control it. Fear brings out the worst in everyone it would seem. He runs his hands through his hair and groans loudly through clenched teeth. How the hell did all of this go to shit so quickly? This was meant to be a good day, a day of fruition and reaping the rewards of the months Tony had spent in an argument with the world’s governments.

It’s enraging and exhausting. Stephen sighs heavily and straightens his shoulders before leaving the tarnished conference room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's nice to have THAT out of the way I suppose.


	11. A Slow Disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys are the nicest, thank you for all your kind comments.
> 
> I'm not super happy with this chapter, but it needed to happen. I've got the next few chapters done and I like them much more. I just got tired of editing this one so here it is. I hope you like it, let me know, as always.

Stephen finds Tony in his office, sitting hunched into himself and with Clint by his side on the floor, head resting against Tony’s thigh looking thoroughly emotionally exhausted. Stephen feels a swell of gratitude towards the archer and he knows in that moment that he made the correct judgment on Clint’s character. He nods towards the archer and gives a soft, “thank you.”

Clint pulls himself to his feet, patting Tony gently on the knee and giving it a kind squeeze. He approaches Stephen and grabs the sorcerer by the bicep. “He’s just calmed down,” he tells him, just soft enough for Stephen to hear. “I don’t…” Clint swallows. “You can handle him, right? Cos I’m about to freak out.”

“He’ll be okay,” he promises him. “Thank you, Clint.”

He nods and takes his leave, his fingers twitching and tugging on his shirt sleeves. Stephen imagines he has much the same issue as Tony, itching fingers that desperately need to stay busy. Stephen expects to find a dozen arrows stuck in the walls later.

Stephen approaches Tony and releases a huff of breath as he takes a seat beside him. He clasps his gloved hands together to hide the violent shakes. Any words die on his lips when he looks at Tony. He sees the emotion in Tony’s eyes and it makes his stomach lurch.

Tony caresses Stephen’s face with his hand that still possesses the ghosts of tremors. He runs his other hand through Stephen’s hair. Stephen feels himself sink into the man’s touch. His anger is something hot inside of him and Tony has all the powers in the world to set him at ease. Tony soothes him, he brings with him a sense of ease that Stephen is hopeless against. Tony kisses him sweetly on the lips and Stephen lets his eyes fall shut.

“I love you so much,” Tony says softly enough to make Stephen want to weep.

Stephen reaches to take Tony’s hand in his where it cups his cheek. “Tony, I’m sorry,” he says. He takes Tony’s face in both of his hands and kisses his face. He kisses each of his eyelids, his nose, his lips, the apples of his cheeks. He wants to hide Tony inside of himself, keep him away from the world that may harm him. He wants to press into Tony firmly just how much he treasures him, how much he loves and adores him. Stephen would defend Tony to his dying breath and would not hesitate to destroy Steve Rogers in the process to do so.

“Stephen.”

Tony is a conductor of light, he’s the joy and the laughter in Stephen’s life. He loves everything about Tony. He wants desperately for Tony to smile; to laugh. He thinks he should have been harsher with Rogers. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Tony asks, his hands leaving Stephen’s face.

Stephen shakes his head. “That this is how the day has gone.” Stephen wants to go to Kamar-Taj and retrieve the Eye of Agamotto and restart the day. It wouldn’t fix this though, he knows this. Steve Rogers will always be the man willing to attack his defenseless teammate, a man with cracked morals and a skewed sense of justice. A man lacking remorse. A man with no care for the footprints he leaves; for the cracks he forms in the structure of society. He’s a man of influence and he wields it with little grace.

“Stephen, I’m okay,” he tells him. “I’m a big boy, I’m Iron Man, I can handle Steve Rogers.”

He knows Tony’s bravado and image take precedence over his vulnerability. “I don’t want you to have to.”

“It’s all a roll of the dice, isn’t it? This shitshow.” Tony pats him on the thigh. “Fucking hell. What the fuck, Stephen?” Tony asks on a heavy exhale.

Stephen lets his head fall back against the sofa cushion. “I don’t know. I did just stab Captain America though, so we should probably go home.”

He startles a laugh out of Tony and the billionaire runs his hands through his hair. “I’d like to go home, yeah.”

Stephen stands and offers Tony his hand, the tremors are still strong, but Tony grips it in his and he can feel the other man’s warmth through the glove. He makes a portal there, in the middle of Tony’s office, and the two of them are in the penthouse in seconds, the mystic glow of the portal fizzing and dissipating in their absence.

 

* * *

 

Tony feels relieved to be back home. His anxiety is quelled by the safety the tower provides and he feels his shoulders drop in relief when he sees Pepper there in the living room filling out paperwork and watching tabloids and stocks. She mutes the television when she sees Tony and Stephen stumble through the portal and her legs unfold from beneath her gracefully.

“Are you okay?” she asks, rushing over to them both on socked feet.

Tony smiles as she inspects every inch of him, taking his face in her hands and scrutinizing his appearance. He doesn’t know what she sees that’s cause for concern, he’s physically unharmed, but Pepper has always been able to see straight through him. She then moves on to Stephen, gripping the sorcerer’s arm and inspecting the blood that dots his gloves.

“It’s not mine,” he tells her. “Or Tony’s.”

A shadow falls over Pepper’s expression, but she doesn’t ask further questions.

“I’m going to make tea,” Stephen announces.

Pepper grabs Tony by the arm and begins steering him towards the couch. He sits obediently beside her, grabbing a throw pillow and holding it to his chest. He watches the flowery scented candle burn on the coffee table.

“You’re okay?” she asks him delicately.

Sometimes Tony is overwhelmed with how much he loves Pepper. She doesn’t ask him what happened, doesn’t demand an explanation, only if she should be concerned. She doesn’t push or demand from him, just offers comfort and patiently waits. He does feel she is owed an explanation all the same. “Steve Rogers is a real piece of work,” he says.

“Who’s blood is on Stephen’s gloves?” she asks.

Tony smiles bitterly. “Nothing should surprise you anymore,” he tells her.

“If you’re asking if I’m surprised by Steve Rogers’ capacity for violence,” she says, “I would tell you that, were this two years ago, I would be. These days, you’re right, nothing does surprise me.” She folds her hands in her lap and inspects her nails before releasing a heavy sigh. “What can be done?”

“About Steve? Depends.”

“On?” She looks at him with chillingly grey eyes.

“What the others think,” he says. “I can’t very well kick him to the curb, can I?”

“Why not?”

“I’m not a vindictive director, Pep. If the others want him around I can’t force him to go.”

“Your team would choose to keep a man that would attack you, an action that puts your authority into question by the way, rather than keep you out of unnecessary harm?” she asks quizzically. “It’s entirely inappropriate, I might add. You are the director of the Avengers. Captain Rogers is your subordinate.”

Tony snorts. Trust Pepper to take such a technical stand on this. It’s no wonder she’s such a brilliant CEO. “It’s really going to come down to what the UN wants. They want Rogers around. If he’s an Avenger then they have some measure of control over him.” He waves his hand. “Can we not talk about this right now?”

“Oh god, Tony, I’m sorry!” she apologizes. “Of course we can. We can talk about whatever you want.”

Tony’s gaze drifts to the kitchen where he can see Stephen frowning pensively at the kettle as it boils, three mugs set out before him. His gloves lay abandoned on the bar. He’s wearing a deep blue suit today, the one dark enough to look black in the right light. It fits beautifully and the color brings out the blue in his grey eyes. Tony smirks. “Have you seen how hot my boyfriend is?” he asks.

Pepper smacks him on the arm and reaches for her tablet before suddenly abandoning the piece of tech and smacking Tony with more force, looking scandalized. “Boyfriend?” she asks.

Tony grins.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demands with an indignant huff.

“It was recent and I’ve been distracted,” he says with a wag of his brows.

She rolls her eyes. “Well, I like Stephen, so I approve.”

“That’s good because we’re madly in love.”

“Love?” she prompts.

Tony hums. “Yep.”

Pepper is trying not to grin, causing little dimples to form on her pink cheeks. Tony is saved from having to say more when Stephen returns with three cups of tea, two in hand and one trailing behind.

“Thank you, Stephen,” Pepper says.

The sorcerer nods and takes a seat beside Tony, taking his hand in his own. Tony rubs his thumb along the scarred tissue of his index finger, willing the tremors to lessen. Tony thinks that maybe he’ll be okay. That everything will be just fine in the long run. He has Stephen, and he has Pepper, and he’s got Rhodey, and Happy, and Peter. Life could be worse, he supposes.

 

* * *

 

Tony has always liked Central Park this time of year, especially this time of day, as the sun is just beginning to set, illuminating the skyline and peeking from around skyscrapers that surround them. The street lamps have just come on and the park is littered with folks on after work jogs, and dog walks, and games of frisbee.

He and Stephen walk at a languid pace, taking their time. Their jackets are zipped and buttoned to ward off the Autumn chill that the breeze carries to bite and nip at their noses and cheeks. Stephen keeps one gloved hand wrapped around his coffee and the other in his pocket and Tony watches him watch the dead leaves that litter the walkway as the wind scatters them. It’s far too easy to let his gaze follow Stephen, perfectly content to just observe the sorcerer.

He likes these walks they take. Tony’s never just strolled through New York as a kid, never really properly explored the city on foot until Bruce had decided it a worthy past time. _Christ,_ he misses Bruce.

“How’s training Wanda going?” he asks.

“Good,” Stephen says. “It’s been good. I don’t know about _now_. She did try to throw herself at me, so I’m going to have to deal with that.”

Stephen always sees the best in Wanda, in everyone, he’s just that sort of man. Tony supposes that’s good for him, otherwise, Tony never would have been given a second glance. He wonders if things would be different if he had been there. Stephen’s never born witness to the true underbelly of humanity, the dark things that they meer humans are capable of. He knows about Kaecilius, but that’s different, the man was human but he was… _more_ than human, Tony thinks. Altered by his magic. Not to mention entirely insane and out of his mind. Tony doesn’t know if Stephen would feel the same if he knew the things that Wanda had done in detail if he had been there in Sokovia. Tony’s not going to be the one to shatter Stephen’s positive outlook. He’s been uncharacteristically positive these past few weeks, Tony thinks it might all be for his benefit.

Tony thinks he might be too hard on Wanda. She was a girl growing up in a warzone grasping at straws for some way to make a difference and a change. She succeeded, for all intents and purposes. She’s an Avenger now, with the powers and resources to make a change in the world. And now that she’s removed from that environment she is left with this rage and no way to dispense of it, no outlet. It has to be hell inside her head.

“She’s kind of a bag of cats,” Tony says. He thinks Bruce would say that if he were in town.

Stephen snorts. “I’m not going to argue that.”

“Where did you zap her?” he asks. “In the conference room, I didn’t see, but I heard her and then she was just gone.”

Stephen looks mildly guilty. “Oh, I portaled her to the compound basement.”

Tony snorts and chokes on his coffee before laughing loudly in the middle of Central Park. It makes his shoulders shake and he sloshes his coffee.

Stephen hides his own grin that begins to form by taking another sip. “She tried to attack me!” he justifies. “It was self-defense!”

Tony’s laughter dies down to a few chuckles but he can’t refrain from smiling widely. “Oh, hell. What are we going to do?” he asks with a shake of his head and a ghost of a smile.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m serious, Stephen,” he chuckles. “What the hell are we supposed to do with them?”

The sorcerer shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Sometimes Tony _really_ hates being the director. It’s a responsibility he had taken without question. The team had always practically been his own, he and Steve being de facto team captains, running the op more smoothly than Fury ever had hoped. Steve had been moral, Tony had been tech. Steve called the shots out on the field, Tony insured they were carried out. They had a dynamic on the field that was enviable from the evening news perspective. Doing things on his own was a lot different. He was doing a three-man job, not that he couldn’t handle it. He could. Tony wasn’t a team player exactly, but he was a strong leader at least and he was a genius. Stephen helped. It was Stephen who had convinced Tony to trust some of his responsibilities with the others. Vision handled his share, Carol did _so much_ out in the field, and Maria was a godsend. Tony wasn’t sure what he had done to earn her good favor, but thank god that he had.

“We’ll figure it out,” Stephen says with the confidence Tony desperately needs right now.

“Yeah.” Tony takes Stephen’s hand in his and the two of them walk. They sit on a bench for a while, watching night fall over Central Park. Tony is always surprised with his capacity for sitting still when he’s with Stephen. A year ago Tony would have been unable to sit on a park bench and simply _exist_ (he had tried with Bruce, it didn’t take). A year ago Tony had been strung out, depressed, anxious. He feels better now than he has in months, and it’s all due to Stephen Strange. “Do you ever think about what we’ll do when shit hits the fan again?” Tony asks, looking up at the sky. He thinks if he looks hard enough he can just make out a star or two, that is, before it flies away, revealing itself as an airplane.

“You mean aliens,” Stephen says. It’s not exactly a question. He is well acquainted with Tony’s fears of an extraterrestrial threat.

Tony nods silently.

“Honestly, I try not to think about it, Tony,” he tells him.

It’s not what Tony wants to hear, but he always appreciates Stephen’s honesty. He swallows heavily.

“I know that’s not like you,” Stephen continues. “You overthink _breathing.”_

“You weren’t there,” Tony says, “during the invasion.”

“I was in England,” Stephen interjects. They’ve already had this discussion once before.

“If you’d seen it you would understand. That memory of yours wouldn’t let you forget.”

“Maybe,” Stephen says.

Tony’s memory isn’t quite on par with Stephen’s. His genius, however, surpasses (not that he would say so to Stephen, that’s a whole fight in and of itself). Point being, if Tony’s own memory refuses to allow him to forget, he imagines Stephen’s would be hell. There’s more here at work, Tony’s anxiety namely.

Stephen takes Tony’s hand in his and the billionaire leans his head against his shoulder.

He’s unsuspectedly vulnerable with Stephen in a way Tony has never allowed himself to be with past relationships. He thinks the only one to ever know him so well is Rhodey, having seen Tony’s darkest days at university. Stephen sees Tony’s good and bad days now.

“Have you thought about talking to your therapist again?” Stephen asks.

Tony hasn’t been to see his therapist for two months, hasn’t spoken to her for a little under a month. Rishika is gonna chew him out if he calls her now. He’s skipped the last several appointments. He hasn’t been using his prescription either, possibly a mistake. “I’ve considered it,” he admits.

“You need to take care of yourself,” Stephen tells him.

Tony releases a breath. “That’s what I’ve got you for,” he says.

Stephen plants a kiss on the top of his head. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m not scared of Steve Rogers,” he ejects. “I know that’s what you’re thinking. You want to kick his ass because he tried to kick mine -- which, fine, yes, thank you. You’re valiant effort to be my scary boyfriend doesn’t go unappreciated. But, I’m not scared of him because he tried to hit me, or that he already _has._ I can take Rogers. I _am_ Iron Man,” he says with a cocky grin.

Stephen adjusts on the bench to where Tony can feel the full force of his frown. “Yes, Tony, the whole world knows you’re Iron Man.”

He doesn’t say it _that_ often, does he? “What I’m trying to get at, is that what Rogers might try and do to me isn’t what frightens me,” he says. “When Clint pulled me out of the room to have my anxiety attack in moderate peace, I was thinking a lot. I realized that, yes, he scares me, but not because he’s a dick that tried starting a throw down rematch. He scares me because he’s reckless.” Tony wets his lips. “Steve Rogers is selfish, and he doesn’t think about the big picture. He doesn’t think about or doesn’t care, I don’t know, about the change he’s capable of creating in the world. Good or bad, but primarily bad. Or, maybe that’s not fair. I think that he _is_ aware of the good, he just elects to ignore the bad. Is the scale of the negativity too massive for him to wrap his simple brain around? Maybe. Or, I don’t know -- maybe he’s dense, maybe he’s just a huge prick. Who could say?” He takes a large sip of his coffee, finishing it off. He fingers the cardboard sleeve of the paper cup, his brows screwed up in a deep frown.

“You’re lack of self-preservation astounds me,” Stephen says after a moment of silence passes between them.

Tony snorts.

“I understand what you’re saying though,” he amends. “I’ve found myself thinking much the same after our run-in a few nights ago.”

“Yeah?”

Stephen nods. “He seems very unaware of the size of the footprint he leaves. He’s not kind to our current political climate.” He shrugs. “Or, perhaps you’re right and he simply elects to be oblivious. Maybe that’s easier for him.”

“Steve once accused me of never being the one willing to throw myself on the wire,” Tony says. Never one willing to take one for the team. “He came in with all this old style class and innocence. A war hero. The man willing to sacrifice his life for his country, all out of the purity of his heart.” Tony snorts. “And it seemed to be true. All of dad’s old stories come to life and walking around right in front of me on two legs.” He chews on the inside of his cheek and Stephen sits quietly and waits for him to finish. “We’ve both changed a lot since then.” Tony truly fears this new age has killed the man he had met back then. This wide-eyed Brooklyn kid from a time long lost wasn’t equipped for the twenty-first century. He adapted, he evolved, and he became just as volatile as the world around him. It would seem even Captain America wasn’t impervious to the new age’s ruthlessness.

Stephen kisses him on the top of his head and wraps his arm around Tony’s shoulders. Tony leans into him and lets the sorcerer run his fingers through his hair. Tony has his own fair share of grey these days.

“We should go home,” Stephen says. “It’s getting pretty dark and I think half the people we’ve passes have recognized you.”

“Scared you’re going to end up on _Entertainment Tonight?”_ Tony snorts. “Are you scared of the tabloids, Stephen?”

“With the way they’ve treated you?” Stephen asks with wide eyes. “Yes, a little. And you’re a hero. God only knows what they’ll have to say about me.”

Tony laughs and he feels something inside of him shift and heals, like so many of the broken pieces within him that Stephen has healed so effortlessly before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if any of you give a shit, but I'm on tumblr @broflovskys


	12. Just Another Action Flick

The others have mostly moved out of the compound. Clint went back to his place in Bed-Stuy, Natasha is accompanying Sam Wilson to DC for a few weeks. Wanda still lives on base, with Bobbi and Vision. Scott and Hope have been occupied doing _god_ knows what. Carol’s been in and out of the compound, she spends a lot of time with Rhodey, for which Tony is thankful. Bruce is still the gods only know where and the same goes for Thor. Tony still has Stephen at least, or, sort of. He’s leaving for Kamar-Taj with Wanda in tow. He doesn’t look thrilled, just determined. Tony has a feeling that he’s going to work Wanda over at the temple and he does _not_ envy that man’s task.

He doesn’t envy his own situation either.

“You’re going to be okay?” Tony asks him, straightening the sorcerer’s tunic where it tucks into the thick leather belt. “With her, I mean.” Tony doesn’t trust Wanda as far as he can throw her.

Stephen hums and corrects the billionaire’s own shirt collar. “I’ll be perfectly fine,” he assures. “I warned Wong ahead of time. He won’t say so, but he’s excited. I can tell, he just hides it under his massive frown.”

Tony snorts. “What are the chances this goes entirely south?”

Stephen cocks his head. “She did try to attack me,” he says thoughtfully. “I talked to her about this, only she didn’t seem as excited as I was hoping for, you know? This will be good for her. It’s… truly, I just want Wong’s input,” he admits. “I don’t know what I’m doing and she’s… not the easiest. I need Wong and I want his opinion. If… if he doesn’t think… I can’t help her any further if she doesn’t change her attitude.”

“You can’t force her to change.”

Stephen nods and releases a heavy exhale. “I know.”

“Not everyone’s a damsel for you to save,” Tony tells him. “You can’t force her kicking and screaming. You should get moving,” he says. “If you wait any longer you’ll miss the sun.”

Stephen nods. “Right. I’ll see you in a few days. Stay out of trouble,” he says.

Tony salutes and Stephen creates his portal. “You know me.”

Stephen snorts. “That’s what concerns me.”

Tony watches him go and shuffles his feet as the portal closes. He sighs. “Well, now what do we do, Fri?”

“You do have several incomplete projects awaiting in the garage, Boss.”

 

* * *

 

The Mark XXI isn’t Tony’s crowning achievement, but it’s definitely up there. It’s incredibly light and thin and compact. It’s durable and gorgeous. Tony’s not trying to suck himself off here, but it’s a damn impressive invention if he does say so himself and he is the ultimate judge on the subject. They don’t call him “the Mechanic” for nothing. He doesn’t call himself “the Mechanic” for nothing, anyway.

The music rumbles through the garage and Tony enjoys the thrum of the drumline as it vibrates through his shoes. The music, mixed with the busy work, keeps Tony’s mind occupied and someplace other than Steve Rogers. He’s avoided the base, hasn’t had much reason to visit lately anyway. Since the others are now free to leave, he doesn’t have much business to attend to. The reprieve is desperately welcome.

He sets the welding torch down and moves to grab the sander when Friday speaks.

“Boss, it looks like someone is attempting to attack the Manhattan Municipal Building.” The reprieve was nice while it lasted.

Tony pulls his welding mask off of his eyes. “Someone?” he asks.

“Clear footage is unachievable at the moment, sir,” she says. “Pulling from past footage and data, however, it appears to be Doctor Victor von Doom.”

Tony sighs. “Again? Fuck, okay. Uh, what’s it look like he wants?” It has been months since the crackpot scientist has surfaced, and Tony has had FRIDAY on the lookout.

“It’s hard to say. He has what appears to be cheaply crafted robots roaming the streets of Manhattan.”

“Fuck. Okay, call whoever is left on base and tell them to get their asses over here,” he tells her, climbing into a suit. Tony is at Centers and Chambers in under a minute.

The streets are littered with ridiculous robot _things._ They have broad shoulders and large heads with massive mechanical mouths that hold rows of razor sharp teeth. They remind Tony of something he’s seen on some shit Michael Bay film or on _Doctor Who_. They’ve made their way to City Hall and Thomas Paine Park and the Supreme Courthouse. The lawn of the Police Department is filled with officers and SWAT that open fire on the oversized robots. The things have made their way up Manhattan Bridge, causing traffic jams and chaos.

Tony doesn’t have visual on Doom through the rain.

“Friday, who’s on their way?”

“The only available Avengers in the city are Captain Rogers, the Vision, and Mister Barton.”

Tony curses. “Okay, ETA?”

“Approximately five minutes.”

That’s fine, Tony can handle this mess for five minutes. “Fri, do you see Doom?” he asks.

“His heat signature is registering on the roof of the Municipal Building.”

Tony fires off a few rounds at a few robots and looks where FRIDAY had said. He can see him just on the roof, below the golden _Civic Fame_ statue that stands proudly over the Financial District. “What the fuck is he doing?”

“I really couldn’t say, Boss.”

“Shit, just, let me know if he tries anything.” He spends his time waiting for backup fending off the shitty robots. He needs to minimize damage until he can handle Doom. The civilians come first, he can go toe to toe with the crazy himself later. He’s not overly concerned about what Doom will physically do on his own, so much as the damage his shit minions will cause.

After six minutes of shooting the robots apart, Rogers and Vision finally arrive. Tony lands beside the two and his faceplate raises. “Thanks for joining the party,” he says. He makes sure to keep a decent distance between himself and the captain. He stands close to Vision; he trusts Vision.

Steve grips his shield tightly in hand. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Where would you prefer us?” Vision asks. Straight to business with all of the stiff upper lip of JARVIS.

Tony nods. “Take Brooklyn Bridge,” he says. “Make sure no one’s too hurt. There’s a major accident about a quarter mile up the bridge, handle that.”

Vision nods once. “Of course.” He flies off and Tony feels greatly relieved.

“Take the street,” Tony tells Rogers. “Most of Tribeca is a mess. I don’t think they’ve reached Battery Park, but there’s a few down Madison Street.”

“I’ve got it,” Rogers says, full Captain America mode in play. “Take Doom. There’s always the chance that he’s the off switch.”

“Yeah, I was just thinking that.” Tony moves to take off when there’s suddenly a rumbling beneath his feet. He catches himself before he can fall and looks at Rogers with wide eyes.

“What the hell was that?” Rogers asks.

Tony shakes his head. “Shit.”

The robot (thing) looks similar to the ones that are littering the city. Only this one is easily three times the size and twice as mean. It moves around the Municipal Building like a metallic dinosaur, large iron clawed paws crumple cars beneath its weight. Tony is _real_ tired of this shit. He should really retire. Can superheroes retire? He’s not convinced it’s a thing and he might have chosen the wrong career path.

“Okay, forget the street, that’s a two-man job.”

Rogers agrees.

Tony is mildly relieved when he hears Barton chime over the com. “Yo, what the _fuck_ is _that?”_

“I wish I had an answer for you, buddy.” He really, really does. “Clint, start cleaning up Tribeca, Rogers and I will take on the big guy.”

“You sure?”

Tony swallows. The answer is _no,_ of course, but what choice do they have? He and Rogers are the only heavy hitters. Clint’s arrows are not going to take down the Iron Giant. “Yeah.”

“On it.”

Tony looks at Rogers and the soldier nods. Tony takes flight, leveling himself well above the mechanical beast. He takes a few shots, keeping Doom well in his sights. Steve is right, there’s a chance that Doom is controlling this thing remotely, that there is some sort of off switch. If he takes out Doom and all of these things shut down, that’s their job done. Somehow, Tony doesn’t think it’s going to be so easy, but Doom wasn’t known for his thorough planning nor his foresight.

He watches as Steve works his way through the smaller droids before launching his shield at the giant. It knocks it across the jaw and succeeds in little else other than pissing it off further. He doesn’t think it’s sentient in any capacity, but the anger is still clear nonetheless when its eyes begin to glow red.

Tony curses. Lazers, okay, _not_ good. He watches as it fires at Rogers and the soldier uses his shield to deflect.

“Boss, Peter Parker is on Water Street,” FRIDAY tells him.

“What? Why?”

“He appears to be assisting in combating Doctor Doom’s droids.”

“Fuck, I am _so_ going to ground him.”

“I don’t believe you have that privilege, Boss.”

“You better believe I do,” he says. “Patch me through to him.” He waits for FRIDAY to confirm the connection. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“I asked to go to the nurse,” Peter says simply.

“Uh hu. And what class are you missing?” he asks.

“Trigonometry.”

Tony sighs and blasts the giant in its broad chest, watching the mechanical beast step on one of Doom’s own little bots. “FRIDAY, keep an eye on him.”

“Will do.”

They aren’t making much progress with the bots and Tony’s getting tired of the same old same old with Doom and his cliché bids for power. Now that they’ve distracted the things enough to allow any civilians to escape the immediate danger zone, Tony decides to switch it up. “Cap, I’m gonna go for Doom. If you’re right and taking him out shuts everything down it’ll save us a whole lot of time.” And prevent a whole lot of property damage.

Rogers nods. “Let's hope it works.”

Doom still stands atop of the Municipal building, looking like a malevolent ruler surveying the destruction. The guy is a shit scientist and terrible inventor, but he urks Tony to no end. Tony flies towards him. It should be a simple takedown. Things, however, never can go to Tony’s plans.

He flies towards the man but he never makes it. Looking back, he thinks it is some kind of forcefield, like a bug zapper or fishing wire with a much bigger target. Tony is less than a hundred feet from the psycho when he is overcome with excruciating pain. He gasps, screams, cries -- his vision whites out and _he is falling._

He knows he is falling as his eyes roll back into his skull. He crashes to the roof of the municipal building, his suit rolling till he collides with the HVAC unit, leaving an Iron Man sized dent in the metal. The sound of titanium against concrete grates on Tony’s ears, even through the suit’s thick installation. The landing is jarring and painful and blackness plays along the edge of Tony’s vision. He feels like his eyes have rolled back and bounced around his skull. Doom laughs, Tony can hear him through the screaming and the fizzing of the malfunctioning com system. He hears Clint and he hears Vision and he hears Peter, all panicked and yelling and calling after him. He might have even heard Steve.

_“Iron Man!”_

_“Mister Stark!”_

Tony groans, his breath hiccuping and catching in his throat.

_He is on fire._

_"Tony!"_

"G-gah!" He curls into himself, clenching his jaw so tight he thinks he may break a tooth. He groans, his skin burns. He smells burning flesh and knows that it’s his own. His ribs scream and his fingers tingle with electricity.

 _“Boss- suit- dangerous…”_ FRIDAY’s voice crackles in and out.

The faceplate opens with a spark and Tony reaches to pry it open where it catches. The rain hits his face and he blinks through it as it runs in his eyes. He thinks his head is bleeding. He can see Doom approaching him at his own languid pace. It’s absolutely _pouring_ now _._ Tony scrambles to sit up, releasing a cry of pain as his side protests and screams. It feels like he’s being stabbed with a hot poker. He can feel the undersuit where it clings to his burnt skin, he thinks the microfibers may have melted and seared themselves to his flesh. It’s agony, but he forces himself upright, all the same, hand ghosting over his abdomen. He wants to touch, but he’s afraid it will make it worse.

He's pissed, both with Doom and himself. 

 _Stupid. Wasn't paying attention._ He should have been able to see. It was a forcefield, he should have seen it. He's a genius, he should have seen it coming. He underestimated Doom. He has never considered Doom a proper threat, not till now _._

“Little Tony Stark,” Doom mocks as he approaches. “You think yourself so important.” He plants a boot firmly on Tony’s chest and kicks, forcing Tony onto his back. It makes his head spin.

He grunts and swallows his cry of pain. “What the hell do you want?” Tony asks. He tastes copper on his tongue and he spits out blood on the concrete.

“I want you dead,” Doom replies simply enough. “Your missiles have long been responsible for the violence in my country. Where I am from we have known your name as the Merchant of Death. The man whose name is the last thing my people see. We see your face plastered across our television sets. Here you are praised a hero. In my country, we know the truth. We are not so blind as the rest of this world. We do not worship you and your Avengers.”

Tony swallows. His head is pounding too severely to focus. He lists to the side and catches himself with an outstretched arm.

“With you gone, my country will finally have its revenge. Peace at last.”

He lifts Tony without having ever touched him, only with the simple motion of his hand. Tony feels his eyes grow wide as he can no longer breathe. The man’s hands glow with a greenish hue. With a simple twist of his fingers, Tony feels the wind knocked out of his chest. The force of the gesture throws Tony from the rooftop. He gasps and flails, the suit entirely unresponsive.

Tony falls and he falls and he falls, and before he hits the concrete, his last thought is that he _fucking_ hates magic.

 

* * *

 

When Tony wakes he is far more comfortable, washed in a sea of anesthesia and slight nausea. He lays on a thick bed of white sheets and the scent of bleach stings his eyes and burns his nose. He knows instantly that he is in the compound’s medical bay. He designed this room afterall. Still, he had hoped to never need use of it.

There’s a beeping emanating from somewhere. A light, slightly dimmer than the rest, hurts his eyes as he blinks them open. He blinks against the light and sees the early evening sun that shines in through the gaps of the shades. There is music, somewhere. Jazz, Chet Baker, he thinks, if he has to hazard a guess.

He feels confused. He doesn’t remember why he’s here. He tries to sit up, but the pain in his side is searingly sharp and steals his breath. His head reals, making him feel light and dazed, like it might pop off his shoulders and float away.

“Tony?”

He turns to see Maria frowning at him. “Hill?”

“How do you feel?” she asks. She’s missing her coat and her hair is down, her eyeliner smudged. She’s been here awhile. He wonders how long he’s been here.

Tony’s brain is muddled. His body aches. He feels like he’s been lit on fire and thrown around by the Hulk and then some. “Bad.”

She smiles. “I would think so. Doom threw you from a thirty-four story building. You know, as director, you really should avoid the more dangerous situations. It wouldn’t do to leave us without you.”

Tony snorts. “Th’n yo’d be n’charge,” he slurs. His tongue feels like cotton in his mouth. He wants to spit it out.

She groans and throws herself into the chair beside him, kicking her legs up on the edge of his mattress. “God forbid. I would lose my mind in a month, I don’t know how you do it. I would consider volunteering Strange as the new director, but he’s too unfit. He’s like a kid in a candy store; too wide eyed. And a little too cocky. And _far_ too willing to break the rules. Remind you of anyone?”

Tony snickers, his eyes falling shut. He feels his exhaustion deep in his bones. He still doesn’t understand why he’s here. “Tha’s m’man you’re talk’n ‘bout.”

“That still baffles me,” she tells him. He watches as she turns and grabs something from the counter behind her. He hears the shuffling of cheap paper but doesn’t bother to strain his neck around to see. “I really cannot imagine what the two of you have in common,” she says, holding up a tabloid magazine. It’s open to a two-page spread, showing he and Stephen strolling through Central Park. There’s a picture of them on the bench showing Tony laughing, head thrown back, and Stephen trying not to. It’s dark and poorly lit, lamp light showing the gleam of ever present mischief in Stephen’s eyes. He remembers the shit joke Stephen had said and it makes him giggle to himself.

Tony grins. “More tha’ you’d thi’k.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” She stands, setting the copy of the _Enquirer_ down and adjusts his IV.

“Doom?” he asks her, voice muffled by the pillow. He thinks this was Doom, but it’s all grainy and the memory swims away before he can properly grasp it.

Maria hums. “His threat level has been upped,” she says.

“Why are you playi’g jazz?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Music helps you heal. I asked FRIDAY to play something of yours that wasn’t heavy rock, something that won’t hurt your noggin. This is what she pulled. I figured you liked it, it’s your music library.”

“It’s Stephen’s.” The name is so slurred it’s near indecipherable.

“Hmm. I hadn’t pegged him for the smooth jazz type,” she says. “Makes more sense though.”

“He did magic,” Tony says.

“Yes, Tony, I know Stephen is magic. I’ll give him a call and fill him in, alright? I also called Carol in to aid in clean up downtown. After you went down, Doom just left, along with all his little Doombots. He only seemed interested in killing you. Luckily, you’re a little more resilient than he thought.”

 _Doombots._ Tony thinks it a fitting enough name.

“I have Rogers and Vision writing up their reports,” she says, grabbing her jacket from the foot of his bed. “Get some sleep, Boss.”

Tony feels fingers card swiftly through his hair as sleep overtakes him.

 

* * *

 

The second time Tony wakes, it’s the same way he fell asleep, with fingers carding through his hair and a numbness in his limbs and a fog ladened over his mind. He leans into the touch and releases a huff of breath that puff out of tired lungs. He blinks several times, the light of his bedside lamp burning his eyes. It’s dark out and Tony has no idea how long he’s been asleep. The lamplight illuminates Stephen’s face and Tony reaches for him, his hand flopping uselessly. Stephen takes it in his and smiles at the mechanic.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Tony croaks, squinting through drowsy eyes. His head feels more clear but still awful.

“How do you feel?” Stephen asks.

“Kinda like how I imagine Britney Spears felt in two-thousand-seven.”

Stephen snorted. “You _are_ Britney Spears.”

Tony gasps softly. “Only if you’re Timberlake. We can wear matching denim suits at the next gala.”

That startles a laugh out of Stephen and he shakes head. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Don’t joke with me about that. You think I give a shit what rich assholes will think? I don’t. I’m too old for that shit.”

He shakes his head, shoulders shaking with near silent laughter. “You scared the hell out of me, Tony,” Stephen admits, his voice wavering. His thumb runs soothing circles over the dorsal of Tony’s hand. The vein connecting his middle finger is pronounced and dark along Tony’s sallow skin.

“I’m perfectly fine.”

Stephen’s smile looks pained and Tony realizes he has no clue how terrible he must look or what Stephen must have been through. “I know you are.” His thumb continues to run the length of Tony’s hand. His brows are creased and Tony wants to reach out and smooth them. “How are you feeling, with a serious answer this time?” he asks.

“Okay,” Tony says. “I have to pee.”

Stephen snorts but stands and offers Tony his hand. “I’ll help you,” he promises. “Your stitches are well enough you can stand,” he says. “Come on, carefully.” He pulls Tony’s covers out of the way and helps him sit up.

Tony groans and lets Stephen help him. He reaches to grasp at his side as it aches and burns. He looks down and sees his chest his bare, save for a thick bandaging that’s wrapped around his entire middle. “What happened?” Tony asks. His words only slur slightly and he lists into Stephen’s waiting hands. He isn’t sure standing is going to be such a good idea.

“You’ve been out two days. You were delivered a severe electric shock,” he says clinically. “Any higher a voltage and you would be dead. The Iron Man suit absorbed most of the shock, but the undersuit seemed unable to take the rest and melted the microfibers and gave you second degree burns. Your arms have some first degree burns as well.”

Tony looks at his arms for the first time and notes the messy array of bandage there too.

“Your back is pretty pink, but it’s only irritation from the undersuit. You have a concussion, as well. Not severe, but it’s going to keep you off for a few weeks,” he says. “But, Tony, your abdomen will scar, there’s nothing that can be done. You’re lucky you don’t need a skin graft.”

Tony sighs. Fine. That’s fine. He has lived through far, far worse than a few burns. “Sounds like I’m lucky to still have my hair,” he says.

Stephen chuckles. “Your full head is perfectly intact,” he says, ruffling the billionaire’s hair.

“Then I’d _really_ be oh-seven Britney. Help me stand.”

Stephen takes Tony’s weight, supporting him, as Tony puts his feet on the ground. He stumbles and grunts, but Stephen doesn’t allow him to fall. “I’ve got you, babe.”

“I feel like shit,” Tony gasps. “Like a jigsaw that some jackass toddler put together wrong.” He speaks through clenched teeth, one hand keeping a death grip on the bed railing. The other arm wraps around his middle protectively, his fists clenched. His legs feel like jello and it’s only out of sheer force of will that he keeps himself upright. And a lot of assistance from Stephen.

“We’ll get you sorted back out again,” Stephen promises.

“Where’s Wanda?” Tony asks as Stephen help him limp to the bathroom.

“I left her in Kamar-Taj,” he says.

“Why?”

“Immersion,” he says with a shrug. “I left her in Wong’s capable hands. We’d been gone only four days, I didn’t want to remove her from that environment. She’s making progress, I fear if I extract her so quickly that she will fall back to old habits.” He assists Tony in not falling as he hovers over the toilet.

Tony can’t manage to be resentful of his temporary handicap if it entails having Stephen hover and touch so much. He’s got Stephen’s hands all over him. Who could complain? Yes, his head is pounding, and yes, he’s seeing white spots, and yes, there’s a stitch in his side that aches like he was hit by a fucking train that also exploded. Life’s a give and take like that.

“What do you mean?” he asks as Stephen levels him back onto his bed.

“She’s angry,” Stephen says solemnly. “She holds onto a lot of leftover anger from growing up in Sokovia. I think she’s afraid if she lets go of it, she’ll be letting go of her brother. Leaving him behind somehow.”

Tony nods and pats down the blanket around his legs. _Anger_ , that reminds Tony: “I need to talk to Maria,” he says.

“What for?”

“I’ve decided what to do with Rogers,” he says.

“Oh?” he says.

Tony hums. "Oh, and Doctor Doom can do magic."

Stephen gets a pensive frown that knits his brows. “We can talk about it in the morning, Tony. Get some sleep.”

The mechanic nods, his eyelids heavy. He’s struggling to keep them open but he wants to stay awake for Stephen. The sorcerer has only been gone the four days and Tony realized upon waking that he had missed him severely. Tony falls asleep with Stephen by his side, running his fingers through his hair and humming along with Chet Baker’s trumpet that still drifts through the speakers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I hope you enjoyed it and if you see any errors please don't hesitate to point them out.


	13. I Will Not Get Upset Over Men, But Instead Be Poised And Cool Ice-Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, this is a lot later than I wanted it to be. I'm really sorry about that. I've been really busy. I hate that I didn't respond to your guys' comments too. But here it is, at last! I hope you guys like it!
> 
> chapter title from "Bridget Jones's Diary" again.

Tony has a searing headache and his whole body feels like a massive bruise. His muscles spasms and ache, he lost feeling in his fingers until two days ago. The burns on his back and abdomen have begun to blister and scab. Nonetheless, he insists on being taken off the local anesthetic. He needs his mind clear and he needs to get things done. He’s a busy man and he has shit to do. He makes Stephen help him to the tower on the third day. Tony wants to bathe in his own shower, and he wants his own clothes and his own bed. The sorcerer reluctantly portals them home under the condition he spends the next few days taking it easy. Unfortunately for Stephen, Tony has no intentions of holding up his end of the bargain.

Tony lost feeling in his right arm yesterday, the appendage is blistered and the muscles spasm on their own. Feeling returned after only a few hours, but it had freaked Tony out. His muscles ache relentlessly and his heart will speed up at random. That scared him the most, he has experience with irregular heartbeats, and it’s all bad. The reactor had short-circuited when Doom hit him, and if it weren’t Hill being fully briefed on how to swap the device out, Tony’s relatively certain he would have died. He hates Doom for this, it had felt like being hit with a high voltage taser and now he’s left with shaky hands and jerky muscles that will refuse to obey at times. His fingertips are still slightly numb, like they’re coated with a thin layer of glue that mutes his sense of touch.

“Tony, you need rest,” Stephen insists.

Tony rolls his eyes and moves stiffly through the large walk-in closet. He has to reach out and steady himself with a shelf occasionally. He feels only slightly nauseated. “What I _need_ is to do my job, and my job involves me being at the compound and not bedridden.”

Stephen sighs heavily. “You nearly died five days ago!”

“I _need_ to get this done,” Tony insists, his voice as hard as steel.

“What do you need to get done?” he asks with disbelief, throwing his arms up. “You haven’t even said what you’re doing?” The sorcerer frowns, his jaw set stubbornly. He’s upset with him, Tony notes. His index and thumb pinch the bridge of his nose like he’s growing a headache. “Tony, for fuck's sake, you are so stubborn. You’re driving me insane!”

“Then go back to Nepal!” Tony says scathingly; desperately. He feels drained and exhausted and his eyes begin to grow wet.

Stephen’s jaw is clenched and his hands shake.

“I need to speak with Maria and Vision.”

“What the hell for?”

“Because I can’t do this with Rogers around!” Tony shouts, he drops the shirt and tie he’s selected blindly, the fabric rumpled and useless now. He swallows thickly, his throat feeling tight and his tongue heavy. “I can’t keep pretending like it’s okay that he’s on the team. I don’t want him there and that’s fine, right? That’s just one man’s opinion. But he’s- it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s- he’s dangerous to have on the team. He isn’t fit for duty. He’s _dangerous.”_ He feels his heart hammering and suddenly his legs are giving out on him and he’s lowering himself to the ground. He sits on the floor of his closet, his side aching and throbbing and he grabs at it uselessly. “He’s dangerous,” he says one last time through tightly clenched teeth. He’s crying, he realizes, and angrily swipes a palm across his cheeks.

He hears Stephen sigh and suddenly the man is again in his line of sight, having lowered himself to the floor so that he sits cross-legged before Tony. “I stand behind you completely,” he says. “But, Tony, I am serious, you need to rest. You scare me.”

Tony frowns at the magician through his lashes.

Stephen chuffs and scrubs a hand across his jaw. “I’m serious. You fucking terrify me, Tony. You have zero self-preservation. The only reason you want to take action against Rogers is because you’re scared of what he’ll do in the _world,_ not because he attacked you. Twice.”

Tony can’t deny the truth in his words.

“Do you have any idea how insane that is?” he asks.

Tony shakes his head.

“What if it were me?” he asks. “How would you feel if I was nearly as reckless as you are? You would hate it.”

Tony nods. He knows Stephen can hold his own against the heavy hitters, he’s _their_ heavy hitter, and that the idea is entirely preposterous. Still, he thinks he understands what it is Stephen is trying to get across to him. Unrealistic as it may be.

“I’m not asking you to change,” he says sternly. “I would never.”

Tony knows that Stephen is aware that the idea, the possibility, of losing anyone else terrifies Tony.

“I know that losing you is Pepper’s biggest fear. It’s mine too. The difference in someone like Pepper and me is that I get to be out there with you, and that’s my privilege. I wouldn’t change it, but you still have to understand that it fucking freaks me out.”

Tony swallows thickly, digesting Stephen’s words. “I understand,” he says in a small voice.

Stephen smiles. “Good. Now would you please get back into bed?”

Tony shakes his head. “Not a chance.”

“Jesus fuck, Tony,” he breathes. “Why are you so stubborn?”

“It’s an inherited trait, and that is rich coming from you,” he says as he pulls himself back to his feet.

Stephen looks up at him from the floor. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever met stubborn enough to drive _me_ insane!” Tony doesn’t think he’s exaggerating here, Stephen is stubborn enough to face off against space gods and psychotic magicians. The man would outlive God to have the last word.

Stephen rolls his eyes. “I am not-”

“Two weeks ago,” Tony says, “you were in my garage listening to Beyoncé till two in the morning.”

“I was keeping you company,” Stephen says.

“You were distracting me with terrible music.”

“Beyoncé is not terrible. She is a world renowned pop icon.”

“I mean, she was decent in Destiny’s Child- can we please not argue about Beyoncé? I will strangle you in this closet,” Tony says. He’s trying not to smile. “You allowed a fucking space god _thing_ to kill you _thousands of times_ just to make a point!”

“Dormammu has the intellect of an eight-year-old child,” Stephen says. “That plan was foolproof and it worked.”

“So beside the point.”

“You know, I don’t actually see what your point is. You have hardly slept in two days, and you need to rest, Tony. I’m a doctor, would you just listen to me?”

“Maybe when I’m dead, Sunshine.”

Stephen’s lips form a thin, displeased line.

“Stephen,” he sighs, “I’m not going to be able to relax until I do this,” Tony says. “So if you would just get dressed because I would prefer that you come along. I’ve already called Maria and Vision, and I’d like your input, Stephen.” Tony _needs_ his input, he values it, and he needs Stephen there with him otherwise he’s not sure he can do this.

The sorcerer sighs heavily, shoulders sagging in defeat. Tony grins, knowing he has won. Stephen curses. “Let me find my sling-ring.”

 

* * *

 

Stephen knows Tony doesn’t want to make a big deal out of everything, it’s something one would think unlike him, but it remains true. Typically, he exists solely to razzle-dazzle, but he’s trying to be less _Chicago_ and a little more streamlined, and he looks to Stephen like he would rather disappear altogether. It’s his nature, Stephen has come to realize, for Tony to deflect anything pertaining to his emotions. Sure, Tony is plenty vulnerable around Stephen, but introduce any third party and Tony clams up like no one’s ever seen. He’ll shuffle his feet and his fingers will twitch and his silver tongue will spool quick and cutting insults and jibes. He’s a master deflector. Stephen is honored that he’s a rare one allowed to see Tony’s honest side. That doesn’t make it any less annoying though.

Stephen tries not to hover as they enter the boardroom, it’s windows are expansive and Stephen squints his eyes as the natural light spills in. He keeps one hand outstretched, just hovering over Tony’s lower back, ready to steady him should he stumble. Tony shouldn’t be walking around so much just yet. He should be in bed, he should be resting, he should be taking his painkillers and not giving Stephen this thrumming headache that feels like someone beating out a samba against his occipital lobe.

Maria and Vision await them as they enter, Maria with her arms crossed and chair swaying. “About time,” she says.

“I was trying to convince _this one_ that I can walk without falling on my ass or pulling a stitch,” Tony says, jerking a thumb at the sorcerer.

Stephen frowns. “You _shouldn’t_ be walking, Tony.”

“I’m fine,” Tony says, taking his seat.

“I’m the doctor.”

“Sit down, honey, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Stephen sighs but sits. At this rate, Tony was on a straight path to a floating rib puncturing a lung - again - or tearing a patch of healing skin.

“What is this about, Tony?” Maria asks.

Tony takes a deep breath, his eyes swiftly dancing around the room and landing on the three team members he has come to trust the most. The ones he trusts his own responsibilities with; trusts his life with. Stephen knows he fears to show weakness, but he also knows that Tony’s fear is irrational. “I need your opinions on what’s to be done about Rogers,” he says at last.

Maria is the first to speak, sighing heavily and rolling her eyes. “It’s about time,” she says.

Tony’s shoulders lose some degree of tension.

“I must admit,” Vision says, “I am relieved to see that we are addressing this issue at last.”

Maria nods. “I was a little concerned I was going to have to make an HR thing out of Carol kicking Roger’s ass. Or Stephen,” she tacks on, gesturing at the sorcerer.

Stephen smiles. This is good, this is support. Tony needs support.

“You’re all on my side,” Tony says more to himself than the room at large. “This is going to be easier than I thought, then. Good. Okay. Life is full of surprises.”

“Did you honestly believe we wouldn’t?” Maria asks.

“I didn’t know what to think,” he says stiffly. “Here are my thoughts, and they’re good thoughts, I’m a genius.”

“A genius with a concussion,” Stephen mutters.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of you annoying me. My thoughts are Rogers can either be put on suspension and then mandatory therapy. That was Stephen’s idea.”

“If we’re going so far as to keep him around, then yes, he’s seeing a psychiatrist,” Stephen says.

“That brings me to my second idea,” Tony says, his fingers indicating a number two. “We get rid of him. There’s a hiccup in that idea, however. The United Nations want him around,” Tony says. “That was part of our arrangement. They want some measure of control over him, and I don’t disagree with them.”

“If the United Nations were to lose what little upper hand they have over Captain Rogers, would that not make him a larger problem that he is now?” Vision asks. “His threat level would return to that of a month ago.”

Tony nods. “Exactly. They would have zero power over a very powerful individual. Again.” Tony sighs. “I don’t anticipate that he would _do_ anything, but he’s just toeing that line.” He scrubs a hand across his face and groans. “Look, I’m ready to do either, despite the UN. I won’t lie to you, though. I think you all know which I would rather do.”

Maria nods. “I agree.”

“He goes,” Vision says and it’s his verdict that surprises Tony the most.

“You think it’s a good idea?” Tony asks doubtfully.

Vision nods once. “I do. Not only must he be made an example of, as a show of your authority over this team,” the droid says, “but he poses a direct threat to you.” There’s a gentleness in his tone that is unbecoming of someone so robotic. For a machine, he shows remarkable tenderness and sensitivity towards Tony’s wellbeing. “I, for one, will not stand for it and would see him to his way out.”

“Data’s right,” Stephen says. “Captain.”

Tony wets his lips and thinks. “Okay,” he says. “He goes then.”

“Sir? Should I call the UN?” Maria asks.

“If you would,” Tony says.

She rises from her seat. “Right away.” She nods and takes her exit.

Tony stands and Stephen immediately follows to catch him should the mechanic fall. He’s looking too grey for Stephen’s comfort. Vision stands and Tony looks at him a moment. “Thank you,” he tells him.

Vision nods diplomatically, and at first, Stephen doesn’t think anything of it, until he sees the surprising degree of emotion in the droid’s eyes. “You did not expect us to have your back,” he says. “You should know better than that. I cannot speak for the entirety of this team, but I, however, will always take your side, Tony. Director. I am confident the others feel the same.”

Stephen looks between Vision and Tony and his gaze catches on Tony’s face. The billionaire’s eyes are misted with something not yet tears, but very near to it.

“You shouldn’t waste time considering other possibilities. It is a fool’s errand.”

Tony's voice breaks. “Thank you, Vision.”

“Of course, Sir.” Vision nods and takes his leave.

Stephen sets a hand on Tony’s arm and the mechanic starts, looking at Stephen with wide, wet eyes. “Are you okay?” he asks.

Tony nods. “Yeah, ‘course.”

“C’mon,” Stephen says, “let’s go home.”

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Tony forgets how much he likes Vision. He trusts the man, android, with his life, he’s one of the few that Tony can say that about. Tony hadn’t expected the sheer humanity inside of Vision. Stephen had called him “Data,” and maybe that’s more apt than he had intended. Like the robotic member of Starfleet, there’s a heart, artificial as it may be, within the man that could put any flesh and blood human to shame.

He has that stiff upper lip and sharp British whit that he had programmed into the AI. Tony loves FRIDAY, but she’s no JARVIS, and Tony misses his oldest friend. JARVIS has always been there, ever since Tony finished his coding as a teenager in a drunken stupor. He was there before Iron Man, he was there during the invasion, during the Mandarin, everything. He misses him. Maybe he grows too attached to the artificial things he creates.

Vision is an _almost_ JARVIS, walking around on two legs in front of Tony and the world. It’s incredible, it’s outstanding, it’s beautiful. An amazing feat of science and magic -- which is just science so scratch that! It’s amazing science!

He should have made JARVIS an anthropomorphic body years ago, or was that _literally_ insane? It was probably insane.

“Tony? You alright?”

The mechanic startles and sits up from his space on the sofa, propped by his elbows. “Hmm?”

Stephen smiles. “You’ve been lying there without talking for twenty minutes. It’s freaking me out.”

Tony grunts. “I’m thinking.”

Stephen raises a brow curiously. “About?”

Tony shrugs. “Rogers, at first. Then Vision.”

Stephen takes a sip of his coffee. He walks across the living room and throws himself down beside Tony, picking up Tony’s outstretched legs and lying them back down across his lap. “What about Vision?”

“I built the basis for Vision’s consciousness,” Tony tells him.

Stephen frowns and silently waits for him to elaborate.

“You remember the whole catastrophe with Ultron?” he asks.

Stephen nods and says, “it was on every news outlet.”

“Yeah, Vis is kinda like an Ultron and JARVIS accidental love child.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re saying to me.”

“I told you about JARVIS,” Tony says.

“Right. The original FRIDAY.”

“Yeah. Sure. Close enough.” It wasn’t the fairest description for all that J had been, but it was apt enough for the time being. “So Vision is an amalgamation of my AI, Ultron, and this synthetic vibranium body that this _U-Gin_ geneticist and Ultron had fabricated. That stone in his head is what animated him we think. It’s all a giant shit show. The point is, Vision is half JARVIS.”

“Okay?”

Tony shakes his head. “I don’t know. It’s… JARVIS was- it’s kinda,” he shrugs, “I don’t know. Forget it.” He doesn’t know what he wants to say. It’s only a handful of incomplete thoughts that jumble around his head incoherently. He can’t really verbalize what he wants to say. When he hears JARVIS’s voice coming out of Vision it is something familiar and something he finds himself clinging to.

“Well hold on,” Stephen protests, “if this is important to you, Tony-“

“It’s nothing,” Tony insists.

“No, it’s not. Vision is important to you, obviously,” he says. “If you want to talk about something, no matter how lacking a thesis it is, I’ll listen to it. That is how normal people have conversation, you I know? They just say what they’re thinking.”

“Stupid people, you mean.”

“Average people. As in normal IQ and normal lives.”

Tony scoffs. “Look, I don’t really know what my point was,” he says. He doesn't know why Vision’s been occupying his thoughts. Maybe he’s just surprised that the man was so behind him on ditching Rogers. He hadn’t expected for all of them to be so against Rogers, he’s grateful that they are but it’s still all very strange to him. He was ready for Plan A to take their favors, that’s why it’s plan fucking A. “I think I’m just trying to think about something other than Rogers.” He misses JARVIS and just sort of latched onto that as something to think on that wasn’t Steve Rogers.

Stephen huffs. “I can’t fault you for that,” he says. “I’m getting sick of spending so much of my time on the guy.” Time he doesn’t deserve. “Well, soon he won’t be our problem.”

“He’s always going to be our problem,” Tony says. “Isn’t he? Even after he’s kicked to the streets, the UN is gonna have my head and they’re going to try to pin this on me. They’ll make it my responsibility. He’ll always be _my_ responsibility.” Tony is so tired of dealing with this man and all the shit that he’s left to pile up on Tony. He’s _not_ Tony’s responsibility.

“Boss?” FRIDAY interrupts Tony’s brooding. No, he’s _not_ brooding, he’s just… well, it doesn't matter.

“Yeah, Fri?”

“Captain Rogers is attempting to get ahold of you,” she says. “He has called your cell twice, I thought after this current third attempt you may like to be informed.”

Tony groans. “Yeah, put him through.” Tony climbs off the sofa and grabs his phone from where it had been discarded in the kitchen. “Yeah?”

 _“Tony, christ, I’ve called you twice,”_ Rogers says.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and?”

 _“I mean,”_ Tony can hear him stumble. _“Forget it. Are you okay?”_

Tony blinks. “What?”

 _“You almost died,”_ he says. _“I saw you go down and you didn’t get up until Hill and the paramedics arrived and Clint airlifted you to base.”_

“Clint did?”

_“They didn’t tell you?”_

Tony shakes his head. “No.” He should probably thank Barton, maybe he’d buy him a beer. He clears his throat. “Is this all you wanted? To ask if I’m alive? You could have called Maria for that.”

_“She doesn’t like me much.”_

Tony snorts and holds back a laugh. “And you think that I do?”

_“Well no, but get your info from the source and all that.”_

“What do you want, Steve?” Tony’s tiring of the back and forth.

He hears Rogers release a heavy sigh. _“Can we talk?”_ he asks.

“We are talking,” Tony says. “Right now. That’s what this is, an exchanging of words. A conversation, if you will.”

 _“There’s something important I want to discuss with you,”_ he says, _“in person. As director.”_

Tony swallows. _As director._ That’s the first that Rogers has acknowledged Tony’s position of authority over the team - over _him_. “Okay,” he agrees. “You on base?” he asks.

_“No, but I can be there in fifteen.”_

“Great, meet you there.” Tony ends the call and sets his phone back down on the granite. He looks at Stephen who’s tapping away at his phone and obliviously out of earshot. Tony supposes this will be as good a time as any for him to break the news to Rogers. Rip off the band-aid. “What the hell?” Tony wonders aloud.

“I couldn’t say, Boss,” FRIDAY chimes through the speaker of his cell.

“Quiet, smartmouth.”

His cell chirps and beeps moodily and Tony smiles, if only slightly.

“God damn it, Rogers.”


	14. A Highly Tuned Performance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, this chapter is KINDA short, shorter than I really wanted anyway. But it was a solid stopping point. BUT, next chapter? Hella long. 
> 
> As ever, I hope you like this!

Tony doesn’t think he’s being unreasonable when he says he sometimes wishes that he never met Nick Fury. Yeah, he might have never met Stephen, but he also maybe would. Tony likes to think that they would have found each other. He could have avoided all the Avengers drama, gone from Malibu and Iron Man straight to New York towers and magicians. He could have bypassed ever having met Steve Rogers, bypassed the heartache and the violence and _this._

Tony storms through the Avengers base, moving past the common room, and the conference room. The place is unusually quiet since the kids went back to school and the others have made themselves sparse. He finds Steve on the back patio that overlooks the outdoor training field. It’s overcast outside today, again, it’s rainy and hazy and the clouds hang thick and dark in the sky over New York. Tony opens the sliding glass door, a cup of coffee in hand from some chain that he passed on the way, and dressed in his best suit. Rogers’ back is to him as he leans against the railing.

Tony feels the familiar coil of anxiety tighten its hold around his gut. He clears his throat. “Any luck finding a place?” he asks.

Steve looks at him, offering a smile. “I got a small apartment in DC. It’s not far from where SHIELD used to be.”

“DC again?” Tony is actually a little surprised. “Thought you would’ve moved back to Brooklyn.”

Steve shrugs. “Tasha likes DC, and Sam’s still living there so I figure I stay for a while. Brooklyn’s not the same as it used to be anyway. We’ll see.” Steve sighs and he looks, to Tony, a little defeated. “That’s sort of- that sort of leads into what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” Tony takes a sip of his coffee.

He nods. “Natasha, Sam, and I… we’re resigning from the team.”

Tony blinks. He feels his face grow hot, flushing with anger. He swallows thickly, feeling his heart begin to race stuntedly in his chest. How _dare-?_ “Resigning?”

Steve nods, wringing his hands. “I think it’s what’s best for the team, and myself.”

Tony nods numbly. “That’s what you think?” He sets his coffee down on the picnic table when he feels his hands begin to shake. They’ve been near uncontrollable, the trembling and the muscle spasms, since Doom - _hell,_ since Siberia. “Fucking Christ. Fuck you, Rogers.” He begins to pace, his arms folded across his chest.

Steve looks surprised. “I thought you would be glad,” he says.

“Glad. Yeah, I’m fucking thrilled. I was prepared to come here and _fire_ you,” he tells him.

“Fire me?”

“Yes! I am director of this team, and you’ve done nothing but undermine me at every turn!” Tony shakes his head. “You have no respect for my authority and Vision is damn ready to strangle you over it. You show a complete  lack of respect for your position on the team and you _attacked me._ ”

“I’ve pissed Vision off?” Steve asks.

“Yeah, and that shouldn’t be easy. He’s a fucking robot. So, congrats, I guess. Jesus Christ, that is so typical of you. I come here, full ready to tell you to get bent for disregarding my position as director, and you come in and circumvent my authority _again_ by firing yourself!”

“That’s called quitting.”

“Fuck off!” He’s fuming, but he doesn’t give a shit. Fuck Steve Rogers, he’s a fucking asshole and he knows it. And isn’t that fucking _rich?_ Tony cannot believe the guy. Tony thought himself an Icarus and he wound up Achilles (because let’s face the music, there’s not a chance in hell he’s not going down in a blaze of glory eventually - the days are ticking). He thought Steve a Hector, once, but, “you are fucking Deiphobus.”

“What? Look, I didn’t mean to circumvent your position as director,” Rogers says. “And I am sorry for almost hitting you. It was entirely out of line,” he continues. “I could have seriously harmed you, you didn’t even have the suit. I mean,” he shrugs, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, nobody said you were Superman.”

Steve wets his lips. “I really am sorry, Tony.”

Tony shakes his head. “I’m not interested in apologies. You should go, I’ll tell Maria to let the UN know that you left willingly.” He knows that Steve is sorry; he is regretful that things played out the way that they did and nothing more. He’s sorry he couldn’t make Tony see things his way. Tony doesn’t buy into his “apology” for a second.

“After what happened in the conference room,” Steve starts. “I mean, Natasha kicked my ass after, she said-”

“I don’t care, Steve. Just… if you leave, you’re gone. I don’t want to hear from you, I don’t want to hear about you. Go start your own superhero squad, I don’t care, just…” He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s so tired of this.

“Okay.” Steve nods stiffly. He doesn’t say goodbye as he goes.

Tony collapses into one of the chairs, his muscles hurt and his fingers tingle. His head is absolutely pounding and he drops it in his hands. He takes measured breaths, his heartbeat thrumming around the inside of his skull. _“Fuck.”_ He wants to call Stephen, wants to curl himself up inside the man and never leave. Or at least have the man portal him home. He doesn’t know if his legs will comply if he tries to stand. He desperately wants a drink.

He takes out his phone and dials Stephen. The sorcerer picks up after the first ring. “Can you come get me?” he asks. “I’m on the overhang.”

“Of course,” Stephen says, “I’ll be right there. Just give me a sec, the sling ring is in the bedroom.”

Tony keeps his cell pressed against his cheek, his eyes shut tight. He thinks if he opens them he’ll just see blackness swarming around the edges of his vision. He’s afraid it will consume him if he looks; he doesn’t want to look.

Stephen appears less than thirty seconds after Tony calls him up, stepping from his sparking and luminous portal.

It’s starting to sprinkle.

“Tony.” Stephen moves to Tony’s side and sets a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly.

Tony hums, grounding his palms into his eye sockets. Stephen’s touch is comforting and he sinks into it, leaning his weight against the sorcerer’s palm.

“Let me take you home,” he says. His voice is so gentle and soft, Tony wants to wrap himself up inside it.

“My head hurts.”

“I know, darling.” He presses a kiss to Tony’s forehead. “You do have a concussion.”

Tony blinks dazedly up at the sorcerer. He was right, there are pools of inky blackness swimming and swirling around the peripherals of his vision.

“Come on.” Stephen offers him a hand and Tony takes it.

He is holding on with so much force, he’s scared he’ll fall.

Stephen opens the portal and takes the two of them home.

 

* * *

 

Tony nearly passes out once they arrive at the penthouse, his eyes roll back in his head and his legs give out beneath him. Stephen catches him and quickly wrapping his arm around Tony’s middle. Tony curses but allows Stephen to pick him up bridal style. He leaves Tony in their bed, and Stephen checks his pulse and checks for a fever.

“FRIDAY, can you close the blinds?” Stephen asks. The AI complies, blacking out the windows and leaving them blanketed in a thick darkness. “I can get you a painkiller if you-”

“I’m fine,” Tony mutters.

Tony sounds so small and Stephen sighs. He knows something is wrong, something besides the obvious, but he doesn’t know how to handle it. He was a wonderful surgeon, but his bedside manner had always needed improvement. He hates that Tony does this to himself, but he respects it endlessly. Tony has a drive that he finds inspiring and incredibly sexy, but all good things have their flipside.

He plants a kiss on Tony’s brow, swiping the hair from Tony’s forehead. “Get some sleep,” he tells him.

Stephen paces the length of the living room, his hands planted on his hips and he frowns at his socked feet.

Tony is all he has.

 

* * *

 

Tony lies in bed. It’s so dark in the room, thick and pulsating. Tony thinks he could choke on the darkness that consumes him. It will fill his lungs; pooling down his throat, up his nose, in his ears. He thinks if he screamed no one would hear through the density of it.

He doesn’t know when he slept last, and even now he can’t bring himself to succumb to his exhaustion. He frowns pensively at the empty bed space beside him: Stephen’s space. He wants the sorcerer to come in here and lay down beside him, but he cannot bring himself to ask it of the man. He just wants Stephen to go. Go like Steve Rogers went. He’s going to, eventually, isn’t he? He might as well make it a quick and clean break.

There is a voice in Tony’s head that fills him with anxiety and dread. _What if he doesn’t come back? What if he left- like really left? Would he?_ Will he turn against Tony and leave just like all the others? _Is this temporary?_

Tony curses. Of course this is temporary. This is all pro tem. Tony is pathological; he drives everyone away in the end. What they have is ephemeral. Stephen will recognize that Tony cannot give him everything that he needs in time, and just like everyone in his place before him, he too will leave.

Tony rolls over, mashing his face into his pillow, and groans.

“Are you alright, Boss?”

Tony grunts. “M’ fine.”

Tony’s cell phone begins to vibrate against the wood of his bedside table. Tony rolls his eyes. “Ugh! What now?” he groans. “I’m going to fake my death, I swear to god.” He grabs his phone and feels himself grow rigid and _Romanoff_ flashes across the screen. “Yeah?”

 _“Steve just told me he resigned from the Avengers,”_ she says.

“Uh, yeah. He said you all do.”

She scoffs. _“Look, Sam can do whatever the fuck he likes, but it’s not Roger’s job to do that for me.”_

“What, so you don’t resign?”

 _“Yes, I resign, Tony, but I would have liked the opportunity to do so face to face. I do not need Steve Rogers fighting my battles for me. If he wanted to play the bigger man, this wasn’t the appropriate time to do so,”_ she says. Tony hasn’t heard her this upset in a while. _“What did he say to you?”_

Tony rolls his eyes. “He didn’t threaten me if that’s what you’re asking? I didn’t feel _endangered._ He said it’s what’s best for the team.”

“You were going to ask him to step down,” she says. “I had a feeling.”

“Right.” Of course she had a feeling. “I was going to ask _him_ to leave, not all of you. I wasn’t going to ask _you_ to leave. It’s been almost two months and I’ve hardly spoken to you at all.” They have their own shit to work out. “You didn’t try to attack me during a meeting, and _you_ didn’t try to _kill me_ because you think I’m realistically a threat to your super assassin boyfriend.”

“I was going to leave anyway, Tony, wasn’t I?” she asks, ignoring the second half of Tony’s small rant. “Have I not already? Maybe not full resignation like this, but I was always planning on going. SHIELD is gone, and you have Maria and Carol. You don’t need an assassin. Though, if you ever do-”

“Yeah, yeah. If I need someone assassinated, yes I’ll call you.”

“You do that.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “I’m not choosing sides,” she says. “Just so you know.”

“I know.”

“Steve is… I’m not going to leave him alone, he’s…”

“Dangerous.”

She sighs. “To you, to himself, to history.”

“And you’re going to keep him in check?” he asks incredulously.

“We keep each other in check. I haven’t been doing a very good job of it lately. I need to be there for him,” she says. “He’s been going through some high water since Barnes came back and I promised myself I would see him through it.”

“I’m glad you finally found somebody worth sticking around for,” he tells her. He finds that he’s sincere in his words. He likes Natasha, the two of them have a unique relationship, to say the least. He doesn’t want her to slip out of his life for good, but if she does, and she’s happy, then he thinks he’ll be okay with it.

“I’ll be back.”

“Yeah. I’ll keep the liquor cabinet stocked just for you. Russian Standard.”

“Thanks, chief.”

“Don’t be a stranger, Romanoff,” he says.

“I’ll see you around, Stark.”

Tony stares at the black screen of his phone after Natasha hangs up. He wonders if she meant it - if he will ever see her again.

His head is pounding and his chest is thumping. He hates this, he hates all of this. He didn’t want for any of this to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is a long and bumpy ride. I apologize in advance.
> 
> Thoughts?


	15. A Truth Universally Acknowledged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It is a truth universally acknowledged that when one part of your life starts going okay, another falls spectacularly to pieces." 
> 
> \- "Bridget Jones's Diary"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I was pissed by Marvel going out of their way to put a Christian cross in Wanda's room at the compound in "Civil War," I'm going out of my way to remedy that. She's a Jewish character so I am making her one. If it were anyone other than Wanda I wouldn't be so bothered by it, but this character was important to me as a kid. It's not even really a big deal, it's just the principle of it.
> 
> If this bothers you in any way, I'm only 12% sorry.
> 
> Also, mind the new story tags.

Tony can’t sleep. He tried, but he woke from oppressive and familiar nightmares, the sort that dredges up decades past. He dreamt of his father. He lays awake now, watching Stephen sleep soundly at his side. The sorcerer slumbers on his stomach, an arm folded beneath his pillow and the other has a weak grip on Tony’s arm. Tony can see his sling ring on the bedside table beside his cellphone. Tony's cuffs for calling the suit rest on his own bed side table. The glow of the city illuminates the bedroom where the blinds have been left open and allow Tony to see Stephen’s face. He wants to blame the light for keeping him up, but he knows it’s the swell of anxiety that sits recalcitrant and cumbersome in the pit of his stomach that is responsible.

It’s approaching two in the morning when Tony can take it no longer and he throws his sheets aside and, taking care not to wake Stephen, exits the bedroom.

He goes to the garage.

“Good morning, boss,” FRIDAY chimes.

“Fri, put some music on.”

Tony brushes past Dummy as the bot whirles and beeps. He sits at his workbench and runs his hands through his hair. The tremors in his hands aren’t so bad now, he trusts himself with a wrench. His head still hurts, the concussion is healing though, or so Stephen tells him. He still gets arduous and insistent headaches, the brightness of the garage lights hurt his eyes now. He tries to continue his upgrades with the suit, tweaking the fit of the gauntlet.

However, he keeps fixating on Steve, on Natasha, on the past month and a half and everything that’s been said and all the decisions that have been determined in runestone. He feels his time with the UN has been wasted. He should have told the UN to go fuck themselves the moment they decided to bring Steve and the others back to the country. He should have let Steve do what he pleased in Siberia. Now he's let a bunch of bureaucrats walk all over him, he's bent over backward to do what others expected of him, and he lost in the end anyway. Didn't he?

He is left with this empty feeling that hollows out his chest and leaves him feeling unsatisfied and incomplete. He doesn't know how to fix it. He has been trying his whole adult life. 

 _Nothing that happens to you as a child really matters._ Tony remembers hearing Obie say that once when he was eight to Howard.

Tony remembers once when he was six and he fell on the winding staircase of the family house, five or six steps slipping right out from under small socked feet. He fell on a glass jar he had been carrying, it was full of fireflies that he had collected that summer. Long Island was full of fireflies and Jarvis had helped him collect them. He had been as prideful of the accomplishment as any child so young could be. The glass had shattered from his fall and Tony had cut his hand rather deep with a thin shard. It hadn't hurt at first until he saw the blood and he realized he  _should_ hurt. That was when the pain, sharp and pulsing, encapsulated his hand and he began to cry and wail. Tony knew Howard had been in the drawing room just a few paces from the base of the staircase, but he never came to the hiccuping cries and pleads of his six-year-old son.

Tony scoffs and rubs his temples. “What is wrong with me?” he asks, aloud. His teeth grind with frustration.

Seeing Steve Rogers has resurfaced many of Tony's traumas and broken memories, the fragile little monsters we repress and tell ourselves they don't matter so long as we don't think about them. It is like a dam has been broken. One traumatic event (Sokovia,the Accords,Siberia, _Steve)_ is brought to the forefront of Tony's consciousness and now the dam is broke and the rest are flowing and bubbling lazily to the surface. Haunting Tony in his dreams and tormenting him with shadows of memories that have shaped him for worse.

_Nothing that happens to you as a child really matters._

“Boss?”

He sighs, tossing a wrench across the work table and ignoring how it _clacks_ across the metal. He’s not interested in working on the suit. He can’t stop thinking about… _everything._ It’s consuming and aggravating and Tony feels like he is spiraling.

He decides the wrench toss isn't enough and he picks the tool up again. He hurls it at the glass with as much strength as he can and it bounces off and skates along the floor creating loud _pinging_ noises as it goes. It’s not satisfying. He wants something to _break._  He picks up the gauntlet, sliding his hand inside with jerky movements, and fires it at the glass. The roaring in his ears finally lessens as the glass shatters and fractures, breaking apart into large chunks and splitting into small beads as it hits the concrete.

Dummy and U chirp and the latter wheels towards him and nudges his hand. Tony pats his camera and the bot’s head droops.

He needs a drink.

There’s liquor in the house, has been for a while now. Tony hasn’t had a drop of alcohol not under the watchful eyes of Stephen in months, and even then Tony stops himself after two drinks. Tony doesn’t care about any of that now. He can’t be bothered to care after the fifth drink, or the sixth, and definitely not once the bottle has been drained. It's really a shame there's nothing stronger than booze on hand.

 

* * *

 

Stephen startles awake, sitting up blearily and blinking against the heavy darkness of the room. Something has woken him and he scrubs a hand across his face roughly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and trying to make sense of the room under the soft glow of the city. There is a weight across his thighs and he frowns. “Wha-? Tony?” The mechanic is collapsed across Stephen’s lap and he swats at Stephen’s chest with a weakly clenched fist. Stephen grabs at his wrist to stop the assault. “Are you drunk? What the hell?” He can smell liquor on Tony: on his breath, staining the soft cotton of his shirt. “FRIDAY, lights to twenty percent. What time is it?” He reaches for his phone and checks the time. It’s _early_. “Jesus Christ, Tony.”

“You suck.” Tony’s voice is slurred and muted against the blanket where it covers Stephen’s thigh but holds a despotic edge that fills Stephen with consternation.

“Do I?” Stephen asks patiently. He rubs at his eyes and yawns widely into the crook of his elbow. “Please, elaborate, Stark.”

“You’re a liar.” Tony shifts till he lays beside Stephen on the bed, rather than on top of him. “You- you’re a liar. You’ll leave.”

“Tony?” He worries about the mechanic constantly, but this is something new. Stephen has never seen Tony properly drunk. He’s heard, from Tony, the tales of his wilder youth. He’s seen the headlines and the tabloids, he does own a television and he has wifi.

“Just like Steve- you’ll go ‘way. Or- or like Obie. You're lying, you're a fake.” Tony swipes his hand across his face, wiping away hot tears that stream down both cheeks. His face is flushed with drink and emotion. “So jus’ go!”

Stephen feels his stomach swell with dread. “Tony-”

“Go ‘way!” He kicks at Stephen, trying to push the man from the bed. “Juss’go!”

Stephen grabs at Tony’s legs, trying to stop his kicking. “Tony- Tony! Stop, Tony, please!”

“No!” Tony shouts, swiping at his cheeks as the tears continue to flow. “Go! I don’t wan’ look at you! Out! Out of m’ bed! I hate you, you’re a liar. People are- aren't like you! Ruin you! Toxic!  _Get out!"_ He kicks until Stephen, frustrated, gets out of bed. 

“Fine! Fine, okay!” He stands, stumbling as the sheets get caught and tangles on his feet. He curses and catches himself on the wall, jerking the sheet off his foot. “Jesus, okay, Tony. Fuck. What the _hell_ is your problem?” He grabs his pillow that had fallen on the floor and throws it back at Tony, hitting him square in the chest. “If you want to drink yourself to death in the middle of the night, then fine. That’s your choice!”

“Fuck you!” Tony shouts viciously.

“Piss off!” Stephen storms from the bedroom, slamming the door resoundingly behind him with enough force to make it rattle in its frame. He feels his heart breaking for Tony as it beats erratically. It’s a dismal sensation.

Stephen finds himself in the living room, pacing along the wide expanse of the windows that overlook the city. It’s a hazy morning, filled with dense fog that encases the city below. The Empire State Building stands proudly across the way, it’s bright lights casting a glow over Stark Tower’s penthouse. Stephen fumes, his hands clenching and unclenching. His damaged hands shake violently, and he forces himself to sit.

He exhales wearily. “Fuck.” He doesn’t know how to handle Tony, he doesn't know what he’s supposed to do for him. He wants to leave just to spite the drunken mechanic, but he’s not that cruel. He can’t leave Tony here alone anyhow, not when he’s this intoxicated. He loves him _so fucking much._ Tony’s always scared Stephen and there is no way of knowing what he might do in this state. 

Tony is suffering right in front of Stephen and there is nothing he can do and Stephen has never felt so god damn helpless in his fucking life. 

Steve Rogers is gone, they have the intended results, yes, but this is not what either of them wanted. Rogers is a coward and Stephen thinks that he hates him. 

Stephen resigns himself to spend the rest of the night on the couch. If Tony wants to drink himself to death in the middle of the night, then fine. He snorts and pulls the throw blanket over his shoulders.

 

* * *

 

Stephen wakes from a fitful slumber to find Tony still passed out in their bedroom. He’s tangled in their sheets with the blankets pulled up to his chin till they bunch up and his legs peek out at the bottom. Stephen checks his pulse and is satisfied with his findings. He leaves Advil and a glass of water on the bedside table and grabs his sling ring and phone before leaving for Kamar-Taj. He’s supposed to pick up Wanda from the temple today. It’s already late afternoon in Asia and he should be on his way.

It is monsoon season in Nepal and ankle-deep waters, piss colored and smelling not much better, fill the streets of Kathmandu. The locals don’t seem to mind much, however, as the rain continues to fall. Motorbikes and muddy vehicles still line the streets and people carry on with life, dressed in bright raincoats and ponchos and carrying battered umbrellas. Stephen admires their tenacity.

He quickly treads through the water, crossing the street to the door of the temple and waving at the biker that stops to allow him to pass. He knocks on the door and it opens momentarily. He grins at Wanda brightly.

She looks good, he notes. Her wild auburn hair is pulled back in a tie and a series of braids, she’s dressed in robes that twist and wind around her thin frame revealing her collarbone and clavicle where a Star of David pendant no larger than a dime rests. Her face is flushed from sun exposure and her nose is slightly sunburnt.

“You cut your hair,” he says. While pulled back he can still see that it’s several inches shorter and lacking split ends. “It looks good.” He brushes past her and she shuts the door after him.

“Am I returning to New York today?”

“Eager to leave?”

“Eager for a change of clothes.”

He snorts and smiles. “Yeah, I’ll take you home. No luck on the portals, then?” he asks. “If you’re still relying on me as your taxi.” They attempted giving her a sling ring and teaching her to form portals, but no dice. He’s remaining hopeful, though. It took him ages to create the weakest of portals and even then he had only been capable of that magic in the life or death situation of being left on Everest to freeze.

She shakes her head. “No.”

He hums. He had a hypothesis that this magic might come easier to Wanda, seeing as she already possesses magical abilities. Sorcery appears apathetic towards her 'chaos magic' as they’ve dubbed it. “That’s alright. I have faith. You are already miles ahead of where you were just a few weeks ago, look at yourself,” he says, smiling. "You should be proud."

Wanda preens under the compliment. It had become apparent to Stephen quite quickly that Wanda is unaccustomed to any degree of flattery or praise. Positive reinforcement works wonders on the neglected. She hasn’t been the easiest student, but Stephen likes her nonetheless. He respects her determination, it is a trait she shares with Tony.

But he’s not thinking about Tony right now.

“These things take time. More time than just a few weeks. As a surgeon, I used trans-sectioned spinal cords to stimulate neurogenesis in the central nervous system. No one had done that before. I invented techniques that will save thousands for decades.”

Wanda rolls her eyes and folds her arms. “Your point? Or do you just like to brag, Strange?”

“I learnt how to do what I did from years of practice,” he says. “But it took more than that to become the best surgeon in the western world. It took natural talent. My memory is eidetic, it’s how I got my M.D. and my Ph.D. at the same time. It took me far too long to look at sorcery the same way I looked at medical science.”

“Point?” she urges.

“My point is that while this takes time, but it takes more than blindly following the rules these texts lay out. Use them and practice them, but use the talents you prepossess as well. Use the magic you’ve already been given and enhance them with these teachings,” he says. “You don’t have to become a sorcerer, just a better witch.”

“A witch?” she asks, her brows inching towards her hairline. “Is that what we’re calling me?”

“It seems more fitting.”

She smiles. “Okay. I like that.”

“Yeah? So, I was thinking we could go over some basics,” he says. “I’d like to see how much you’ve improved since I left. Then we can go back to New York.”

She nods and wets her lips.

He opens the mirror dimension and he and Wanda step inside.

She takes a defensive stance.

Stephen squares his shoulders and flexes his fingers. “Hit me.”

She grins broadly.

Stephen throws a shield up just in time to block a blast she sends his way. It glows an angry hue of red and sends Stephen stumbling back a few steps. “Good,” he breathes. He forms a sparring staff and deflects Wanda’s next several blows.

Her hands glow red as she flings balls of psionic energy his way.

“Good, try forming something more solid.” Wanda is used to shapeless blasts, using her abilities to move objects rather than properly form them. He wants her to be able to better defend herself without reliance on the objects around her.

She nods and he can see her concentrating as she forms a dense ball of energy. He widens his stance as she throws it at him. He realizes, as the blow connects with the staff, that he should have stuck with the shield. The blow causes the staff to dissipate and for Stephen to stumble and fall. He grunts from the impact as his back connects with the floor. He groans. “Yep. Great job, Maximoff.”

She offers him a hand and pulls him to his feet.

“That’s good, Wanda. Your constructs are stronger,” he tells her. Her psionic abilities are improving. “You’re relying less on your telekinetic force. That’s good.” Her telekinetic abilities are what properly concern Stephen. They’re truly dangerous. Given too much accidental force and she can cause someone to completely combust - implode. _Gone_. It’s terrifying. He wants her to rely more on her less deadly psionics.

“What about my mental powers?” she asks. “We haven’t practiced those.”

“I think we’ll save those for a later date,” he tells her. “I’m still practicing my own telepathy, it’s a bit wobbly.”

She smiles. “I find that hard to believe.”

He shrugs. “Can’t be perfect at everything. Telepathy is still too new to me, I don’t want to embark on that with you even a little. Not quite yet. Headaches all around, one of us could wind up dead.”

Wanda nods.

“If you want to practice telepathy with anyone,” he says, “I would recommend Vision.” The only person Stephen has trusted himself to practice his telepathy with has been Wong and Tony, and he restrains himself immensely with Tony out of fear of hurting the mechanic. “I’ve never practiced with Vision, but Tony tells me to all the time.”

Wanda swallows and brushes a strand of hair that has fallen from her complicated updo behind her ear. “I don’t know that Vision will allow me to,” she says. “He’s… we haven’t spoken since the Accords.”

Stephen frowns. “You should correct that, then.”

She shakes her head. “Yeah, maybe.”

He pats her on the shoulder. “C’mon, kid. Go get your things, I’ll take you home.”

He waits for her to grab her duffle and he opens them a portal, bringing the two of them to the common room of the Avenger’s compound. As they step through, they’re immediately met with voices and a cacophony of sound. There’s music playing, louder than Stephen strictly thinks necessary, and shouting and laughter.

“Stephen! Hi!”

It’s Peter that shouts, but he’s not alone. America Chavez and a girl Stephen thinks he has perhaps seen before accompany him, along with another kid Stephen doesn’t recognize.

“Hi,” Stephen echoes flatly.

Another unfamiliar girl bounds into the room. “Oh, shit, you’re Doctor Strange,” she says. She’s a younger woman, but Stephen would place her several years older than Peter. Maybe twenty, not quite twenty-five. Her eye is bruised an unflattering shade of yellow, a fresh bandage wrapping her hand, and a healing scab blemishing her busted lip. "Sup."

“Yeah. You are?”

She juts out her hand and says with no lack of confidence: “Hawkeye.”

He shakes it and frowns, his brows knitting together in confusion. “Huh?”

 _“No,_ you’re _not!”_ Clint says, walking into the room with a beer in hand. “Stop telling people that.”

She shrugs, planting her hands on her hips. “Name’s Kate Bishop. I’m practically an Avenger. And a private eye. I will also kick someone’s ass for money.”

“Clint?”

Barton shrugs. “Sidekick?”

"I'm his  _partner."_

 _“You_ have a sidekick?” Stephen asks.

_"Partner."_

“Don’t look so shocked, Gandalf,” he says. “She’s picked up my terf while I was in Wakanda, least I could do was train her.”

“Not that I need it,” Kate says proudly.

“Yeah, Kate says we should start our own team,” Peter says. “Spider-Man, Miss America, and Hawkeye Junior!”

“Don’t call me that!” Kate says simultaneously as Peter’s girlfriend(?) says dryly, “the teenage dream team,” and the kid Stephen’s never seen before asks, “why can’t I join?”

“You can be our tech guy, Ned!” Peter says excitedly.

“I’m sorry, who are you two?” Stephen asks.

The girl gives him a peace sign and says, “MJ,” and the boy’s face lights up and he says, “I’m Ned. We’re Peter’s friends.”

“I’m not joining your stupid leotard squad,” MJ tells Peter.

“When did the compound become a high schooler’s hang out?” Stephen asks. He looks at Clint for answers, but the archer just shrugs again and takes a sip of his beer.

“Dunno, but I’ve got next dibs on Mario Kart. Yo, America, hand it over.”

The teen rolls her eyes but passes the controller to him without protest. “Fine. MJ’s gonna kick your ass anyway.”

“Unlikely.”

She sticks her tongue out at the superhero.

“What is happening?” Stephen wonders.

Wanda shakes her head. “I don’t know and I really don’t care. I’m going to my room. I need a shower with soap that I didn't watch be made.”

Stephen watches her walk away, her robes flowing, still feeling unduly confused as to why their base is overrun with teenagers. It's like an infestation, an ant hill that can't just be washed away with a hose.

He goes to the kitchen to make tea. The water has just begun to boil in the pot and Stephen sets out a mug when Clint enters, tossing his beer bottle into the recycling bin. “That doesn’t go in there,” Stephen says. “There’s a separate one for glass.”

“Shit, really?” The archer looks at the bin. “Huh.”

Stephen rolls his eyes and levitates the bottle into the purple bin beneath the sink.

“Thanks.”

“You lose Mario Kart?” Stephen asks, tearing a packet of tea open and steeping it in his mug.

Clint shrugs. “Yup. Should have known. Michelle is a devious shit.”

“MJ?”

“Yeah.” Clint laughs. “Pete’s practically in love with her. Poor kid.”

“When did you become a babysitter?”

“When I decided to train Kate, apparently.” He shrugs, leaning his weight against the counter. “She’s a crazy good shot,” he says proudly. “Took up my beat when she noticed I’d been gone a few months. Bed-Stuy isn’t exactly downtown, but it’s not a place you wanna go for an evening stroll, you know? She saw the problem and she took care of it. Just because I came back doesn’t mean I could ask her to stop. So I keep an eye on her. She’s scrappy. Showed up at my place the other night with a busted lip and a black eye. There was a shit ton of blood and three-fourths of it _wasn't_ her's. I'm  _scared_ to see the other guy.”

“Is she alright? I could-?”

“She’s okay,” Clint assured him quickly. “She’s tough. I patched her up, it wasn’t anything I haven’t dealt with before. We mortals bruise a bit easier than wizards.”

“I’m not a wizard.”

“And I don’t know, I like it - being a _mentor.”_

“God help today’s youth.”

“I never thought about having kids-”

“I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself.” He stirs sugar into his tea and takes a sip.

“Have you seen Tony today?” Clint asks. “I tried calling him earlier but he didn’t pick up, and FRIDAY just says he’s asked to not be disturbed.”

Stephen swallows past the sudden lump in his throat, the tea warming his throat and belly on its way down. “Uh, yeah, I haven’t spoke to him today. He… had a late night. He was still in bed when I left this morning.”

“Ewe. If he was up all night because of sex stuff, spare me.” Clint reaches for his own mug and pours himself tea.

Stephen frowns, contemplating his options. Clint knows Tony, and Stephen doesn't think there is anything that Tony can do that could properly surprise the archer. There’s the likelihood that Tony wouldn’t want the archer to know, but as far as Stephen is concerned, you lose the right to be spared from humiliation once your actions become harmful. Tony’s drinking is the very definition of harmful.

“He was drunk.”

Clint makes a face, swallowing his tea and setting the cup down on the counter. “He was drinking?”

“I didn’t know we even had enough liquor in the house for him to _get_ drunk.” He sounds bitter even to his own ears. He would be lying, however, if he said he didn’t blame himself a little. He should have been more cautious, he should have taken stock of the exact amount of alcohol in the penthouse. “He came to bed last night, but I fell asleep before he did and I guess he just didn’t go to sleep.” Stephen shrugs angrily. “I don’t know if he was just waiting for me to go to bed so he could drink. Has he _been_ drinking and this is just the first time I’ve noticed?”

“Hey, Stephen, take it easy,” Clint says.

“He called me a liar,” he says.

“Tony?”

“He came in the bedroom completely wasted, I could _smell_ it on him. He accused me of lying to him, like I was just using him or something.” Stephen hasn’t cried in ages, but he can feel the emotion perched just beneath his tongue, can feel the pressure behind his eyes. “He was so angry with me,” he says. “I don’t know why. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know what I’ve done-”

“Hey, you can’t blame yourself,” Clint argues. “Look, I don’t know what goes on between the two of you, but you can’t blame yourself. Tony’s my friend, and I love the guy, he’s like my brother, but I’d like to think that you and I are friends too,” he says.

“Thanks,” he says in a small voice.

“Tony can be difficult,” Cint says. “His drinking has always been a problem, but it got worse for a time after the invasion. He got better though, so I don’t-”

“Rogers,” Stephen ejects. “It got worse after Rogers. A few months after everything he went to rehab.”

“Shit, seriously?”

Stephen nods. The tabloids had had a field day with the information, taking every opportunity to slander Iron Man. “Almost six months. It was, ah, for substance abuse. Alcohol and um," he shakes his head. "He was in therapy after.” There’s a sorrow that sits cold and heavy on his heart. “When I met him he was two months clean.”

Clint runs a hand across his mouth and exhales heavily, closing his eyes. His curse is muffled against his palm.

Stephen stares into the dark pool of his tea. Steam from their mugs rises and dissipates in the space around their heads. They can hear joyous screams and playful laughter from the game room. Muffled music pulses through the wall and Stephen can feel the hum of it through the soles of his shoes.

“He promised he could handle a drink here and there,” Stephen says, his voice quiet and low. “He always stopped after two glasses, just two fingers of whiskey each. It’s been like that for a while; two, maybe three months. It was only a glass here and there. I’ve only seen him drink on maybe five occasions.” There’s the sickening feeling of complacency that hangs like fog around Stephen. “I’m a fucking doctor, I should have known better.”

“You’re a neurosurgeon, not a psychiatrist.”

Stephen doesn’t see how that matters. “It’s my responsibility,” he argues. “He’s my boyfriend and I let him down.” Stephen exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I haven’t spoken to him all day. I don’t… know what to say to him, so I haven’t said anything.”

 

* * *

 

Tony wakes with a thundering headache, feeling like his brain is knocking around his skull. It’s a sadly familiar feeling that he’s all too accustomed to from decades of experience. He stumbles from the bed and rushes to the en-suite, emptying his stomach in the toilet. It’s mostly bile, his stomach empty.

Tony rests his head against the porcelain bowl and groans. “FRIDAY, turn the fucking lights down.”

The lights dim to ten percent and Tony sighs in relief.

He rinses his mouth out over the sink and brushes his teeth half-heartedly. “Where’s Stephen?” he asks.

“Doctor Strange left this morning at seven-twenty-one for Kathmandu,” she says. “He left a glass of water and three Advil on your bedside table, Boss.”

He grunts. “What time is it?”

“It is currently twelve-eleven.”

Tony sighs and marches back into the bedroom, grabbing the pills and swallowing them dry before drinking the full glass of water. He sits on the bed and runs his hands across his face. His head is pounding and he feels shame, hot and terrible, as it spills through his stomach and makes him gag. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

He jumps to his feet and he throws on a hoodie before taking the elevator down to the garage.

The place is trashed. He only just recalls it, and if his mind was any less superb, he likely wouldn’t recall a thing. Unfortunately, he remembers every cruel accusation he unfairly leveled on Stephen last night. He steps through the shattered glass where the door used to be. It’s a horribly familiar site. He becomes predictable when he’s this depressed. He knows he is spiraling and this is rock bottom. His shoulders sag as beads of glass break and crunch beneath his shoes. He curses. “Okay, so, we’re seeing a pattern here. Wonderful.”

“You become rather destructive when you’re upset.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Quiet, JARVIS.” He moves to grab the dustpan that he keeps beneath the TV cabinet when he freezes mid-stride. “Vision?”

The android smiles. “I do retain vague recollections of your JARVIS, and this is one in particular that sticks out to me.”

Tony swallows thickly. “Yeah? And you’re mentioning this now?” he asks. “Why are you here?” he asks harshly.

“FRIDAY called me,” he says.

“You talk to FRIDAY?” he asks. “What the fuck does that mean? Why are you buddy-buddy with my AI?” He grabs the dustpan and tosses it on his workbench.

“I am half your AI,” Vision says. “I am half a computer, I am always alerted if any member of the team is in distress.”

“Am I in distress?” Tony asks.

“That is for you to determine. FRIDAY thinks so.”

“FRIDAY is a computer, she doesn’t _think.”_

“You and I both know that is not entirely true.”

Tony sighs and leans against the workbench. “What do you want, Vis?”

The android steps more properly inside the garage and stops a few paces from Tony, close enough for comfort, but not so close as to crows the mechanic. “I simply came to offer my assistance. Should you request it.”

“Should I request it.” Tony shakes his head. “I need a lot more than _your assistance,_ wouldn’t you think?” Tony is shouting, but he can’t bring himself to stop. There’s a rage inside of him that’s swelling and leaves him with the need to break something.

“Tony-”

“No! This isn’t okay!” Tony says. “None of this is alright. Look at me! I’m right back where I was. It’s a cycle. I am a well-oiled machine. You can set your damn clocks by my meltdowns.” He curses and places his hands on his hips. "No matter what I do it's not enough."

“You are not the sum of your past,” Vision says. “Allow me to assist you, Tony.”

Tony sighs. If this were anyone else he would say no, he would kick them out the moment he saw them there in the shattered doorway. This is Vision, though. This is a man born of half machine- _his_ machine. With the gentle and familiar cadence of his old best friend. Vision offers Tony a comfort no flesh and bone human ever could. “Yeah, I suppose I could use it. If you dust up this mess, I’m going to throw out the rest of the alcohol in the penthouse.”

“Is there any down here that I should dispose of?” Vision asks.

Tony shakes his head. “Drank it all.”

Vision nods. “I will gladly clean this up, go.”

Tony takes the elevator back to the penthouse and goes immediately to the wet bar. There’s not much, as he hasn’t been drinking much since rehab. There is, however, a bottle of Jim Beam and a bottle of Malibu. He empties them down the drain and throws their bottles in the bin. He throws the trash bag down the shoot while he’s at it. He goes to the fridge next and throws the rest of the beers Clint had left over down the shoot. He hates the cheap stuff, but he’s not risking it. He knows what it’s like to be desperate for a drop.

He can already feel the want, the desire, as it dries out his tongue and makes his fingers itch. He can feel it as he empties the bottles down the drain.

He makes himself sick.

“Hey, Vis, you don’t have to hang around here,” he says once he has returned to the garage. “I appreciate you checking in with me, really, but I’m not a damsel.”

Vision dumps the last of the glass into the bin and sets the pan aside. “You are my friend,” Vision says. He links his hands behind his back. “When I said that I will always have your back I did not mean to imply that those emotions are only applicable when facing a foe. I meant that entirely, in every sense. I am by your side in all situations. You are my friend, Tony, and you are the closest thing that I have to a family.”

Tony’s eyes water and blinks away the threatening tears. He’s an emotional drunk and enough alcohol still hangs over his consciousness. He clears his throat. “You’re sure you’re not JARVIS?”

Vision averts his eyes to the grey expanse of the floor. “I apologize. I understand that you miss your AI greatly, if you would rather I leave-”

“No!” Tony reaches out to stop his going and hold a tight grip on his wrist. “No, I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean that like that,” Tony says. “I just meant you sound so much like him. Not just the voice, you- you’re a lot like him. It was supposed to be a compliment.”

Tony watches the gears in the droids head turn as his lips part in a small “oh.”

Tony lets go of his arm and Vision inches closer to the genius. “You’re a lot like him but you’re also better. You’re more human.” Tony smiles at him fondly. “You’re a scientific miracle.” Tony feels the apples of his cheeks grow hot. “That you would think of me as family is… I’m sorry to be such a disappointing one." Tony has a deep seeded fear that he is walking right into the craterous footprints that Howard had left behind and it crushes Tony with each breath.

“You are deeply flawed,” Vision says. “It is a very human trait.”

_("Your father is a flawed man, Tony, but he loves you very much.")_

Tony leans against the droid, shoulder brushing shoulder. Dummy rolls up beside Tony and nudges his hand and the inventor pats the bot’s cam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Feelings? Grievances?
> 
> It gets worse before it gets better.
> 
> Also, news: There are only like a chapter or two left for this story, but there will be more. I will continue this as a series, but because I want to keep this contained to the "Return of Rogers" story arc, I'm going to end THIS story soon and the events of this chapter and the next will be the lead-in to the next story.  
> So if there's anything you really want me to include in this universe, let me know.


	16. You Said That If I’m Happy You’re Cured, But I’m Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conclusion?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter. It’s a rough one boys. But I promise all the happy endings will happen in the soon to be posted sequel. The Rogers arc has concluded, so here lies the lead in to the Fixing Tony’s Shit arc. It gets worse before it gets better and that's just recovery, baby! Time to finally address all the problems canon shit likes to sweep under the rug. We gettin' up in there, y'all. Sorry this is so late, I'm still not sure I'm super happy with it, but it is what it is.
> 
> I apologize in advance. Mind the recent story tags, if any of that is sensitive for you. 
> 
> ///
> 
> Chapter title from “Jameson” by Zella Day

* * *

“Would you like me to make tea?” Vision asks. The droid stands in Tony’s kitchen, looking around with wide eyes at the unfamiliar space surrounding him. He has visited the Tower on occasion but he has never had a need to step into the kitchen space before now as it offers him little. “That is what the doctor does when he is feeling stressed.”

Tony frowns at the droid as he takes a seat at the kitchen bar, watching the man watch him. “I’m not stressed, I’m depressed. And why do you know what Stephen does when he’s stressed out?”

“Doctor Strange spends much of his time at the compound,” he replies. “When he is not in Kamar-Taj and when he believes he is not welcome in your home it is where he comes, I believe, to socialize.”

“When has he felt unwelcome around me?”

“He is under the impression that you require space,” Vision says. “Before the two of you were outspokenly romantically involved he would spend many days at the compound.”

“He hates his apartment,” Tony says, but it sounds hollow to his own ears. He hadn’t known Stephen had been isolating himself to the compound just to be someplace other than his penthouse uptown. Had Stephen wanted away from him that bad?

“I do not understand his behavior, but your human conduct often perplexes me. He divulged to me that he experiences a large degree of stress and finds that tea is a helpful solvent. It is illogical, but the strength of human willpower over reason is quite remarkable.”

Tony knows he is the cause of Stephen’s stress and with the knowledge now hot and weighty on his mind he finds the likelihood of Stephen not returning ever rising. He gnaws on his thumbnail and pushes away from the counter and back onto his feet. “I don’t need tea.”

He isn’t going to drink, he’s _decided_ that, but _C_ _hrist,_ he really wants _something._ Tony hasn’t been one for drugs since his parents died but he had a small relapse after Rogers (it really wasn’t a big deal, the therapists blew it out of proportion), but he would be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind once or twice over the past few months. Tony knows all he would have to do is wander down to Central Park, plenty of smackheads and dealers linger around the park entrance looking for some sorry kid to sell uppers and downers and pilfered prescriptions. It’s really quite sad that he knows exactly who to look for if he wants some smack - his name’s Jake and he’s a Columbia dropout that worked at his father’s furniture store up until his old man kicked him out, he still has his phone number. The fact that Tony knows any of this means absolutely nothing, fuck off.

Tony shakes himself. “Thanks for coming by, Vis. It means a lot, but I think I need to- you know,” he shrugs sorrily.

“You would like to be alone,” Vision deduces. “Of course, I’ll leave you to yourself.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

Vision nods. “I shall be at the compound, should you require anything.”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to call.” He watches Vision leave through the lift and buries his hands in the pouch pocket of his hoodie. He looks down at his chest and realizes he’s wearing Stephen’s sweatshirt. With Vision gone, Tony grabs his coat and his shoes and his keys.

He is in Central Park in twenty minutes. It should be enough time to reconsider but Tony has always had an addictive personality and once he’s made up his mind he doesn't bother to backtrack. Jake isn’t around, but instead a young Latino kid Tony has seen once before. Tony hands over one-hundred and twenty total because he’s an impulse shopper. He goes for the Quaaludes (they help him sleep), and leaves with several others as well (he’s had a weakness for the downers but he feels the need to balance it out with some uppers while he’s at it).

He doesn't take them straight away but sets them out in their respective baggies and plastic bottles across his bathroom sink. He doesn’t bother to label them, he knows them well enough by color, shape, and size. He rests his palms against the porcelain countertop and frowns at the pills. He doesn’t know when Stephen will return (if Stephen will return) and he doesn't need the sorcerer finding him stoned out of his mind in the middle of the day. It’s only four in the afternoon. This day has felt fucking long.

Tony remembers both of his stents in rehab with a clarity that someone so out of it has no right to retain. He knows he should call his therapist, but his phone is in the kitchen and the drugs are in here. God, he’s so fucking neurotic. _Substance use disorder_ is what his therapist had said. Tony snorts. It’s all fucking bullshit, isn’t it? He doesn’t need a doctor to tell him what the fuck is wrong with him. What the fuck does a label matter?

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply before letting it out. Looking at himself in the mirror, he sees himself for the first time in days. He looks paler than his Mediterranean complexion has any right to be. His hair is a skewed mess. The bruises that line his deep-set eyes are dark and heavy. He doesn’t feel like he’s looking at himself, but as if he’s watching the actions of someone else.

He wants Stephen to come home, he wants Pepper to come home, he wants Bruce to come home. Why did he send Vision away? There’s a crippling fear in the hollow of his chest that none of them ever will come back, and why should they? He is nothing but cruel and selfish.

Each time Tony tries to think of all the cons of doing this, all that comes to mind is a big old backlit portrait of Steve fucking Rogers. He thinks of Romanoff's goodbye. He thinks of the heavy weight of a vibranium shield against his chest, he thinks of the Russian winter cold that seeps into his bones and bites at his skin. The bone-crushing anxiety overwhelms him and he cannot breathe and the panic grips him.

His hands shake as he fumbles with the ziplock baggie. He pops a pill in his mouth, fills the plastic cup by the sink with tap water, and swallows it.

Tony takes a shower and changes into his own clothes and by the time he is dried and dressed he can feel the sedative-hypnotic kicking in. It makes his mind so intoxicatingly slow and his heart (for once) doesn't feel like it’s going to burst. He feels better than he has in ages. Why the hell did he ever stop? He's on the precipice of a steep drop off and he's toeing the ledge.

He marches into the kitchen and in a fit of anxiety decides to dial Stephen. The phone rings twice before the sorcerer picks up.

_“Tony? Hi, hey. Look, I’m sorry for leaving, i-”_

“When are you coming home? To the Tower I mean,” he corrects himself quickly. No- he shouldn't assume. He rubs his palm across his brow in frustration and tries again. “When are you- are you coming back over?”

 _“Yeah, of course I am. Where else would I go?”_ Stephen’s voice becomes stern. _“Don’t, however, think that I’m not completely livid right now. I’m not letting this be a relapse, okay?”_

“Stephen.”

_“I am serious.”_

Tony giggles, head feeling light. “I know that you are. I’m fine. It was… I was upset, but I’m going to be better. Vision and I took out the rest of the liquor in the house. It’s all gone. Crisis averted. No worries.”

_“Vision was there?”_

“Yeah, he just left. I promised him I would be okay on my own, and I am. So, just come home.”

“I’ll be right there.” Stephen wants to believe him so bad that Tony can feel the plead in his voice over the line. Stephen is a stubborn bastard, however, and Tony doesn’t buy that Stephen is buying any of it for a second.

Tony still holds the phone to his cheek when Stephen steps through the blinding gold of his portal. He smiles widely a the man and immediately approaches, grabbing him and bringing him into a deep kiss. “Hey.” His skin feels like it’s burning with desire and he wants Stephen to undress him and have his way with him. He needs for Stephen to take him apart. Tony doesn't want to think about last night and he doesn't want to think about today.

He's had a stressful month, he's entitled to a small breakdown.

Stephen smiles and his eyes fall shut blissfully. “Hey.” Tony deepens the kiss on the second go around and Stephen moans into the mechanic’s mouth. “What’s gotten into you?” he asks.

“I’m an emotional wreck and I’ve missed you, sorry if the first thing I want to do when I see you is fuck you.”

“I’m not complaining,” Stephen says. “It’s- we need to talk, Tony.”

Tony hates those words. They are cursed words. No discussion begins with “we need to talk” and ends with a happy and healthy relationship. Those are the words Pepper had used before they could even begin and those are the words that he had heard in school when Whitney admitted to only using him and the words Rumiko used when she walked away from him.

“We can’t just sweep this under the rug. This is serious.”

“I know, I know,” Tony says dismissively but with as much false sincerity as he can muster. “We will talk about it but would you just fuck me first?” Tony fumbles with Stephen’s fly and urges the denim down and out of the way. He licks his way into Stephen’s mouth and hums. This is so much better.

Stephen laughs breathily and shivers from Tony’s touch. “Tony, Christ, slow down. At least let me get you to the bedroom.”

“Why bother? There’s a couch right here.” Tony pulls Stephen by his shirt, leading him towards the expanse of the sofa. He falls backward over the arm and brings Stephen down with him. Tony pulls at his own shirt, pulling it over her head and tossing it blindly to the floor.

“What is with you?”

“Just fuck me, for fuck’s sake.”

 

* * *

 

Tony fucks Stephen and then he lets Stephen fuck him in the bedroom and Tony gets the best sleep he’s had in ages. Two days go by and they don’t talk about it. He thinks Stephen is trying to give him space, he wants Tony to come to him willingly to talk. Well, he’s not going to. It’s a battle of wills between the world’s two most stubborn and it’s likely to end with an explosion if they put it off any longer, but Tony still refuses. Instead, he distracts Stephen with sex and quick remarks. Tony knows this dance,

Tony wakes before the sorcerer on day three, Stephen can be the laziest person Tony has ever met sometimes, and he rolls out of bed. He goes to the bathroom to use the toilet and pauses at the sink after washing his hands. He stares pensively at his reflection. He definitely looks more well rested then he has in weeks. The anxiety that looms over him day-in and day-out has lessened thanks to the relief of good fucking and drug-assisted sleep.

He pokes at his own face just to double check that it is his.

Tony knows he and Stephen should talk about the other night, but he would really rather do anything but. So he showers, he dresses, he throws back a Quaalude, and he goes to the garage to give his brain something to focus on. Tony grows exhaustingly bored a few hours in on a new suit. The blank slate of approaching an entirely new Iron Man suit is thrilling and allows Tony to tinker and avoid the anxiety and the uncertainty of the world on a good day. It’s an unhealthy fixation, but it’s only a problem if you address it. Tony finds he has a lack of interest in truly creating today. He wants to go outside.

As he goes upstairs he sees Stephen pulling his shoes on. The sorcerer smiles and stands once he has finished tying his laces. “Hey, I was just about to come down. I’m going by the compound, I told Wanda I’d train with her today.”

“Oh.” Tony feels vaguely disappointed that Stephen is leaving, he had wanted him to go with him for a walk. He hasn’t been out of Stephen’s sight for days and the idea is both thrilling and paralyzingly terrifying. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to go to Central Park. I need fresh air.”

Stephen looks apologetic. “When I get back? I told Wanda noon.”

Tony waves it off. “Nah, I’ll just go on my own. I’m a big boy, I won’t get lost or child snatched.”

Stephen chuckles. “I don’t really believe you. You should call Clint, he’s been worried about you.”

“You just want me to have a babysitter.”

“Yes, I do, that’s why I’ve already called him.”

Tony rolls his eyes. He doesn’t need Barton to look after him, he’s not a fucking child and if he wants to get high he can get high. He does feel absently guilty for lying to Stephen, but it’s like a guilt belonging to someone else. “Yeah, thanks. I’m going to change, and then I’m going for a walk with or without Clint. So either he’s here or he’s not. Have fun with Wanda,” he tells him. “Play nice.”

“Clint will be here in five minutes, so don’t change too quickly,” Stephen says before kissing him tenderly on the lips. “Tony… we’ll talk when I get back, won’t we?” he asks. “I know you don’t want to, but…”

Tony nods and the guilt swells and becomes more present. Apparently, Stephen’s stubborn will is able to bend to his stubborn persistence. Maybe that makes him the more mature. “Yeah. You’re right, we should. We will,” he promises.

“Okay.” He brushes the fringe from Tony’s forehead. “I love you.”

Tony smiles and feels a wetness behind his eyes. “I love you.”

“I’ll see you in a few hours,” he says. He winks over his shoulder as he slides his sling ring on. “I’m making dinner.”

Tony watches him go before hurrying to his closet. He changes into a nice shirt and a black jacket. He checks himself over after he’s pulled his shoes on, pills (inside left pocket), wallet (outer right), and Iron Man cuffs (outer left). He goes to the kitchen to grab a water bottle just as FRIDAY announces Clint is on his way up on the lift and swallows back another Quaalude with the first gulp. He has already taken the one this morning before going to the garage, but he still feels antsy and ungrounded so a second one won’t hurt. He’s building a tolerance for them quickly and finds himself doubling his intake.

“Hey, Tony!” Clint calls as he steps out of the elevator. “Where you at? Oh, hey, waddup?”

“I’m going for a walk, you can either come or you can sit on your ass here,” he says.

“O-okay. Where to?”

“Dunno. Does it matter?”

“Typically, yes?”

“Central Park then. It’s as good a destination as any, and it gives you plenty of time to ask me all of your redundant and vacuous questions.” And if he’s lucky and can shake Barton, he can refill his stock.

Clint rolls his eyes. “Yikes. Grouchy this morning.”

“Annoyed that my boyfriend thinks I need a sitter,” he says.

Clint spreads his arms with his palms face upward in surrender. “Can you blame him? I’m fucking hype that you have someone willing to breathe down your neck to make sure you don’t kill yourself.”

Tony wets his lips. “I’m not suicidal, Clint. And I had one relapse, it’s not the end of the world. I can handle my shit.”

“We’re just looking out for you, man.”

“I’m sure.” Tony enters the elevator and the archer chases after him just as he jams the down button and the doors begin to shut. The ride down is made in silence, but as soon as they hit the street and the bustle and noise of New York hits their senses Clint begins to talk incessantly. He asks about SI, he asks about Stephen, and he asks about what Tony’s been up to in the garage, but he carefully skirts around the obvious. Tony likes the fresh air nonetheless. He’s more or less successful in blocking out Clint’s chatter, responding to every seemingly innocent question as if on autopilot. Tony is just happy to be out of the house, the stale air was beginning to feel heavy and stifling.

“Stephen said you were mad at him,” Clint says once they’ve reached Central Park. There are plenty of people out at this time of day, teenagers, couples on park benches, joggers and dog walkers. “When you were drunk.”

Tony swallows. “Yeah, I was a pretty huge asshole. That’s not exactly a novel occurrence.”

“Do you… wanna talk about it?” he asks. It’s such an awkward and unnatural question coming from the man that it does that it causes Tony to pause in his stride.

“Are you serious right now?” Tony laughs.

Clint throws his arms up. “I don’t know, man! I’m trying here, give me a break. Cut a guy some slack. I’m worried about you, okay? Is that so horrible? For fuck’s sake, I’m new at being the feelings guy.”

“The feelings guy.” Tony scoffs. “I was pretty fucking wasted, Clint. I’ve been a little stressed, and my anxiety has been through the roof thanks to Rogers. And because I can’t keep myself together for five fucking minutes, I drink! It’s not a huge deal, don’t make it into one.”

He is tired of everyone blowing things out of proportion. Steve Rogers had been looming around for weeks, the UN has just been _waiting_  for the perfect excuse to throw Tony in maximum security lockup, the constant threat of an invasion hangs over all of humanity, and they're worried about Tony's choices? That's what they decide to concern themselves with?

Tony just wishes they would all fuck off and leave him alone. He just wants to be left alone; alone to breathe and not have his face plastered across every news outlet. One channel praising him a hero, the next a murderer. 

“Tony-”

“Look, I don’t need pity. What I need is to be able to fucking breathe. And don’t get me wrong, I am thrilled that you are back, Clint, but this has been too damn much for me. I can’t deal with Steve. I couldn’t look at the guy without having a full blown anxiety attack for months. I thought I was dying the first time- like, like heart failure or cardiac arrest. All because I’m a pussy that can’t deal with seeing a picture of the guy on the fucking news because my trigger is a national fucking figure and a goddamn American icon!” Tony takes a deep breath and runs his hands across his face a through his hair. He groans. “So, just, excuse me for having a moment of weakness. One fucking evening where I didn’t have to be Iron Man.”

Clint is looking at him so sadly it makes Tony’s heart shatter.

He is such a mess. He swipes his palms across his eyes to hide the tears that attempt to slip through. “I’m just… exhausted.”

“We should call a cab,” Clint says.

Tony laughs. “I’ll call Happy.”

Stephen is still not home when they get back to the Tower. Tony slips off his jacket and tosses it on the back of the sofa. He kicks his shoes off, losing his balance and steadying himself on the back of the couch, and runs his hands through his hair until it’s a complete mess. He knows he looks like a lunatic, but he feels like one too, so at least it fits. “I’m taking a shower,” he announces. “You can leave or you can sit around here. I don’t care which.”

Clint shrugs. “I’ll bolt. Stephen said he’d be here in about an hour and, like you said, you’re not suicidal.”

Tony snorts. He had said he wasn’t suicidal, he hadn’t said he has never been. It’s not exactly relevant but for some reason, he feels the distinction is important. “So glad you’re coordinating with my boyfriend.”

“Yeah, well, you do what you have to.” Clint shrugs and zips up his jacket. “I’ll see you later, Stark. Call if you need me, I’m thirty minutes away.”

“Not with your driving.”

“Stay out of trouble!”

“Yeah.” Tony watches him go and then goes to take a shower. He rinses off and takes a third Quaalude. Three in one day might be pushing it but despite the two in his system, he’s feeling tense. He needs something to take the edge off. He gets dressed and throws himself down on the bed, grabbing the throw blanket that stays at the foot of the bed and wrapping it around himself. He sighs. “FRIDAY, where’s Stephen?”

“Doctor Strange is still at the Avenger’s compound, Boss,” she answers. “He is in Training Room B with Miss Maximoff.”

“Hmm.” He thinks there’s enough time for him to take a nap. Maybe he was overdoing it with that last Quaalude. The previous two were still in his system and the latest on top has already begun to make him drowsy.

He sleeps and doesn’t know for how long, but Stephen is in the kitchen making _something_ when he wakes up. “That smells amazing, what is it?” he asks. He scratches at his stomach and yawns. He’s still sleepy, the sedative making his mind pleasantly hazy. He feels both alive and like he’s sleepwalking, like he’s wading through a swampy pool of still water.

The sorcerer smiles. “Singapore noodles with firecracker chicken.”

Tony slips in behind him, a hand resting lightly on his hip and he takes a piece of chicken from the pan and pops it in his mouth. It’s hot and the flavor is sharp and most definitely firecracker-esc.

“Tony,” Stephen gasps. “That’s hot.”

“Mmh, yes, and it’s good. You’ve become a much better cook since you started hanging out with Clint.”

“Why thank you. Speaking of, where’s he?”

“He headed home,” Tony tells him. “He was a very good babysitter today. I only had one public meltdown.”

“Good.”

Tony runs his hand across Stephen’s abdomen. “I don’t need a keeper, Stephen.”

The sorcerer hums. “I know,” he says. “But forgive me for being cautious.”

Tony rolls his eyes and, impulsively, he shuts off the stove and takes the rubber spatula from Stephen’s hand and sets it on the counter.

Stephen freezes and hums. “The chicken was done anyway.”

“You wanted to talk.”

“You choose this exact moment.”

“My will to have this discussion is very brief and very fleeting. The window of opportunity has already begun to close,” he says. “Talk quickly.”

“You were mad at me,” Stephen blurts. “Why?”

Tony shrugs and answers shortly, “I was drunk.”

“Why were you drinking?”

“Anxiety.”

“Because of Rogers?”

“Yes and no.”

Stephen nods. “If it had gotten that bad why didn’t you come to me?” he asks. “I’m a doctor-”

“You _were_ a doctor,” Tony says with a roll of his eyes.

“I _am_ a doctor, Tony,” he insists sternly and more than moderately offended. Tony knows he’s struck a nerve but he doesn’t know why he’s being so cruel. “That knowledge doesn’t just evaporate because my fucking hands don’t work. Try a different excuse.”

“I’m Tony Stark. My breakdowns make headlines. I’m not used to having _you.”_

Stephen’s forehead creases in a deep set frown. “What do you mean?”

“Have you met you?” he asks in disbelief. “You’re…” he waves his hand erratically at the sorcerer. “And I’m _me._ I… I forget.” He chews his lip till he tastes copper on his tongue. “I forget that you won’t hate me because I’m not- because I can’t be everything that I’m supposed to be.” He feels incredibly detached from the things he’s saying. The last Quaalude is really giving him something, he can practically feel his blood singing in his veins. His arms feel heavy like they’ve been tied down with weights.

Tony is caught by surprise when Stephen takes him in his hands, his thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone, the pad of his finger soft and smooth. He plants a kiss on Tony’s forehead, on his nose, on each of his eyelids, and chastely on the curve of his lip. Tony’s eyes fall shut and he exhales.

“If I have not made clear just how much I love you,” Stephen says, “then I blame myself for that.”

“Stephen-” He doesn’t want to listen to Stephen stand here and profess himself to Tony. He isn’t quite sure he’s built to hear that.

“I’m not perfect, Tony,” he says. “You’re doing yourself a real injustice if you think you are somehow _unworthy_ of _me._ I’m not any better than anyone else.”

“Would you be saying this pre-fairy powers?” Tony ventures with a small smile.

Stephen snorts. “Maybe not, but if I’d known you? You would have knocked me down a peg, I’m sure.” He runs his hand through Tony’s hair. “Have dinner.”

“That sounds good.” Tony sways on his way to sit at the kitchen table but catches himself against the oak. He looks back at Stephen but he has his back turned as he plates their dinner. Tony thinks he really must have overdone, but he’ll take the fucked equilibrium if it takes the edge off. The lack of anxiety and fear and the sense that the world is crashing down on him is a fair trade for a little dizziness. He just needs to put a little more effort into being himself.

Stephen sets their plates down at the table and takes his seat, smiling up at the mechanic.

Tony returns his grin with a lazy one of his own.

  

* * *

 

“Tony, what is with you?” Stephen stumbles as the back of his calves connect with the bed frame and he falls back on the mattress. His laugh breaks into a moan as Tony latches onto the juncture of his neck just below his jaw. He throws his head back and runs his hands under Tony’s shirt causing the man to shiver.

Tony moans and lets Stephen hoist him higher up the bed. Normally, Tony would object to being lifted and tossed around, but with Stephen, it’s oddly sexy. He grinds against the sorcerer and soon he’s being flipped and the man is above him, lifting his shirt over his head and tugging his pants down.

“Get your clothes off,” Tony insists. Stephen complies and soon Tony is a moaning mess of incoherence and drug-enhanced pleasure.

They lay in bed after and Tony swims in and out of hazy consciousness. He falls asleep, but he doesn't know for how long before familiar dreams come to haunt him. He wakes with a start, his muscles tense and his head swimming.

"Tony?"

"Mmh fine," he grunts and rolls out of bed.

“Don’t get up,” Stephen objects, grasping lazily for Tony, but he’s already out of reach.

“I’ll be back, I just need to pee,” he says.

Stephen huffs. “You don’t really need to close… the door.”

Tony already has the door shut before Stephen can finish his complaint. He flicks the lock and reaches into the box he has grown far too familiar with. He takes out the pill bottle he has moved the Quaaludes to and pops one in his mouth, swallowing it down with the cup he keeps by the sink. He runs his hands through his hair and tries to make the sweat drenched mess a little more presentable. He’s running on an orgasmic high, but he needs the downer to keep himself from a freakout.

The tolerance he’s built up makes his comedowns overwhelming. He had one a few days ago after spending too long at the compound and the paranoia and anxiety were so overwhelming he felt like the walls and ceiling were coming down on him. He finds himself taking three or four a day now, it’s a dependency he shouldn’t be comfortable with, but has yet to object to.

Either from a strong sense fo apathy or a lack of energy to try.

He comes back to bed and curls in beside Stephen, letting the sorcerer wrap himself around him.

“About last week,” Stephen begins.

He groans and sits up. “Stephen-”

The sorcerer hurries to sit up as well. “I’m serious.”

“Okay. What?”

“I love you and you deserve to hear that more often and if my inattentiveness to you played any part in your drinking, then I am so sorry.”

“I know that you love me,” Tony says. He knows that, he does. On a good day, he doesn’t question that, but it’s the anxiety and the loathing that pull everything into question. He can not help it and he despises it. He needs the reminder, as pathetic as it sounds. He hates that part of himself, wants to cut it away.

“I love you and I respect you,” Stephen tells him.

“Do you like me?” It sounds childish, but he can’t resist.

“I love you and I like you.”

Tony laughs. “I like you, too.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says. His forehead rests against Tony’s.

“You won’t.”

“I’ll stay if you stay.”

Tony giggles. That sounds like a wonderful idea. He is cripplingly afraid of losing the ones he cannot live without. Stephen grew to the top of that list with a surprising rapidity that it is frightening. 

The sorcerer hushes him gently with a delicate kiss, his thumb brushing over his bottom lip once he pulls away. “Marry me,” he breathes.

Tony feels his heart hammering in his chest, pounding deafeningly in his ears like a baseline. He has to of heard him incorrectly; there has to be a mistake. Tony can’t have possibly…

“Your eyes are dilated,” Stephen says. He tilts Tony’s face up towards him, and Tony blinks against the daylight that streams in. His hands brush the fringe from Tony’s face and he runs his thumb over Tony’s supraorbital bone. “Have you hit your head?” he asks softly. “You’ve just healed from a concussion, if you’ve hit your head it could be serious.” He feels around the base of Tony’s skull but doesn’t find anything.

Tony just shakes his head from within Stephen’s grip, his eyes never leaving Stephen’s face.

 

_Marry me._

 

_Marry me._

 

_Marry me._

“Tony? Are you… are you high right now?” he asks.

“What?”

Stephen’s expression is stone cold and lacking any of the tender emotions it held just moments ago. “Have you taken something? If you are on something you need to tell me.”

Tony binks slowly. “It…”

Stephen’s face closes off as it clicks into place for him. “Tony?”

He gets defensive. “What-? _No.”_

Stephen’s lips become thin, pressed lines and he throws the bedsheets aside and gets out of bed. Stephen plants his hands on his hips and he begins to pace.

“I’m not on anything!” he shouts. Tony swallows thickly, watching him grow well and truly angry, and angry with Tony at that. That’s something new and it frightens him.

“What did you take?”

“Nothing.”

 _“Don’t lie to me!”_ Stephen shouts. His face is practically red with his growing rage. He points at the billionaire accusingly. “Not about _this,_ Tony!

He didn’t mean to get out of control, it is dysmorphic self-medication and nothing more. He knows, however, that he is fucking up and there is no retreating. He feels panic rising as it claws up his throat, but it's muted from the pills and feels distant and belonging to someone not him.

“In the bathroom,” he says. His voice is delicately even and his hands shake violently with fright from his own actions. “Under the sink.”

Tony watches Stephen’s heart shatter and he feels like a criminal for causing such a beautifully brilliant man so much pain. He extracts the box and opens it with wide, shocked, and disbelieving eyes. Christ, he’s a terrible fucking person. Stephen doesn’t deserve any of this. Tony did this to him.

“Are these Quaaludes?” Stephen’s shoulders drop and his expression is utterly crushed and he inspects every pill bottle and baggie Tony keeps. He doesn’t seem to recognize any of the other pills Tony has kept and scarcely touched, but the disappointment wafting off of him is insurmountable. “Oh, Tony.”

He is crying, hot tears that roll down his cheeks and fall in heavy droplets. Tony wipes them away quickly with trembling hands. Stephen sits on the edge of the mattress and kisses his forehead forcefully. Tony wants to pull away and hide in shame. A sob gets caught in his throat and he hiccups with enough force to rattle his chest. This scares him and Tony hates all of it. He didn’t intend to make this into something, he is not proud of any of this.

“Hey,” Stephen assures him, hushing him softly. “It’s okay, Love. Are there more in the house?” he asks.

Tony nods slowly. “In… in my jacket. The living room.” He wets his lips and watches Stephen nod before promising he will be right back and rushing from the room. Tony scrubs a hand across his face and groans, he feels utterly defeated - and a little nauseous. He should have balanced out that Quaalude with some uppers. He thinks he still has some Adderall left.

He shakes that train of thought and closes his eyes against his shame. He wishes he wasn’t such a fucking wreck.

 

* * *

 

 

Tony brought illegal substances into the space they share and Stephen hasn’t even fucking noticed. He blames himself entirely. He is a fucking doctor and he didn’t notice that Tony had been getting stoned on fucking Quaaludes and high off of god knows what the fuck else. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with him? How fucking blind do you have to be?

“Fuck,” Stephen curses. He’s found the drugs in Tony’s jacket and he stares at them where they rest on the granite countertop. He feels like he should call someone, but who? Pepper, probably. She has always been the one to handle Tony at his worse. He wishes he had Banner’s number. Tony trusts him, he has been someone Tony has felt comfortable divulging all things personal to. Stephen wants to be that, but he’s not certain that he is.

He steals himself and grabs the drugs before returning to the bedroom. Tony is still in bed, looking down solemnly at his hands. Stephen takes the box and the baggie and dumps them into the toilet.

“What are you doing?” Tony asks.

“I’m throwing these out,” he says. “Problem?”

Tony shakes his head, but looks very much like he does, in fact, have a problem.

Stephen grinds his teeth till he feels his jaw muscles jump. So he’s been taking them long enough to develop some degree of attachment; a degree of dependency. Stephen curses to himself and flushes the bowl. “What do you want me to do?” Stephen asks. His hands are on his hips and looks at Tony sternly but openly.

He shakes his head. “I don’t…” he sighs heavily. “I don't know.”

Stephen wets his lips and shrugs uselessly. “I don’t know either, Tony. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do here. My instinct is to throw you in rehab, but I don’t-”

“I do _not_  need rehab,” Tony insists.

“No? Because this is a relapse, Tony. This is textbook relapse.”

“I’ve already done rehab. It doesn’t work.”

“Hospital then.”

“What?”

“Clearly your bougie rehab centers aren’t cutting it,” Stephen says.

“My what?” Tony shakes his head. “Look, I’m not going to some looney house! Fuck that!”

“That’s your best shot, Tony!”

“Locking me up with the crazies!?”

“What do you recommend!?” Stephen groans and presses his open palms against his eyes and pressing. He feels like he has no control here and he’s terrified. “Tony, I cannot do this with you if you carry on like this. I am not going to watch you kill yourself! I need you to want to change.”

“You told me you would never ask me to change.”

“I’m not asking you to stop being you,” Stephen argues. “I’m asking you to stop actively running yourself into the ground. You’ve made me a better person,” he says, “a happier person. Why won’t you let me do the same for you?”

“I don’t need your help!” Tony shouts.

Stephen clenches his jaw, his lips pressed tightly together into a thin, pale line. “Fine.” Stephen grabs his shirt from the floor and marches from the room.

He takes the elevator down to the private carpark, walks directly to his own car and throws the driver's door open. He's practically out of breath as he sits in the leather seat, his hands clenching tight around the steering wheel. He starts the car, but he cannot bring himself to leave. His fingers flex and tremble and he feels like screaming.

So he does.

He yells and he rages against the world and the sick irony of fate and he slams his open palms and clenched fists against the steering wheel. He slams down on the horn, reveling in the echoing shout it releases as it cascades through the garage, hardly heard to his ears over his own screams. Tears fall freely down his cheeks. He doesn't stop until his throat is raw and aches and his heart stops erratically fluttering in his chest.

He feels drained of strength and several lifetimes older. He rests his forehead against the wheel and swallows his sobs.

 

* * *

 

Tony watches Stephen storm away and listens to the sounds of him leaving, he listens to him take the elevator and soon the penthouse is encased in suffocating and violent silence. It’s heavy and it’s choking him, clawing down his throat and up his nose and seeping into his ears.

Tony sits there with only the sounds of his own heavy breathing before he frantically flies out of bed, grabbing his pants and quickly pulling them on. He nearly trips and steadies himself against the wall. He chases after Stephen. “Hey, wait!"

Tony takes the elevator down after Stephen. 

He finds him sitting in his car, sitting as still as a piece sculpted by Michelangelo himself and just as devastatingly beautiful. He looks unseeingly ahead at the concrete wall through his windshield. 

Tony sucks on his teeth and wets his dry lips before approaching the car and climbing into the passenger seat. 

Stephen looks at him and his face is pale, but his eyes are rimmed with a violent shade of red.

Tony feels like a monster. He can feel his heart beating behind the reactor so loudly he thinks Stephen must hear it too.

“What?” Stephen’s solid tone leaves no room for hesitation. Tony fully believes that Stephen will leave this moment and he will never see him again if he doesn't say the correct thing.

“I love you.”

Stephen shakes his head. “What does it matter, Tony?” he sounds so sad.

“I want to be better,” he says. “I… thought that I was, after I met you; because of you. But- I guess being with someone doesn’t miraculously fix you. I thought that- because- I thought that because I had you everything else would be better.” That's not how crazy works, though. Tony's nightmares and all the little monsterous, grotesque things that haunt him in every shadow of a poorly lit room does not simply go away because he is in love. 

“That’s not fair.”

“I know that.”

Stephen hangs his head, frowning forlornly. “I just want what is best for you. And if that means that I lock you up in a looney bin, then that’s just what we do.”

Tony feels like his chest is being pressed upon at the very thought like he’s suffocating. “It won’t come to that.” The words taste chalky on his tongue.

"I just don't know."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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